


When The Stone Begins to Dream

by KitsuHime



Series: Stone Dreams [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bull Has Issues Too, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Sex, Depression/Anxiety, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inquisitor Gets A Mabari, Inquisitor Has Anger Issues, Iron Bull gets a cat, Kink Negotiation, Mild Humiliation, Multi, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Threesome - F/F/M, Trust Issues, mild ocd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 302,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsuHime/pseuds/KitsuHime
Summary: Morgan Cadash never liked the Carta, but she knew how the game was played. It was a means to survive, and she'd resigned herself to nothing beyond it.  Then the world was ripped open and she was suddenly a religious icon.  Battling her depression became a lot harder with more than half the world depending on her to save it.  Everyone she meets is calling her the Herald of Andraste.Except for Iron Bull.  He just calls her 'Boss', telling her bad jokes and making her really smile for the first time in months. Everything is easier around him, but hard lessons from the Carta make it hard to open up to anyone, especially a Ben-Hassrath.  The fact that she's started dreaming for the first time in her life isn't helping matters, either.





	1. Captain of the Chargers

**Author's Note:**

> Please try to enjoy my un-beta'd first chapter of my bull/cadash fic.

Captain of the Chargers:

 

The night after Morgan Cadash awoke in Haven after stabilizing the Breach, she almost ran.  The only thing that kept her from gathering what little she had and running back to the Free Marches was the terrified people living just beyond her door.  Whatever she had been before, she was now seen as a beacon of hope at what seemed, for all intents and purposes, like the end of the fucking world. Unfortunately, that was also the same night the dreams started.

Dwarves simply _didn't_ dream, so even the most benign images were deeply unsettling.  After nearly a week with little to no sleep, Morgan sought out the elven apostate, Solas.  He'd seemed quite knowledgeable about the Mark and the Breach, so it made sense to her.  But her luck continued to be unfortunate.  Solas was absolutely _fascinated_ by the fact that a dwarf was dreaming.  He asked all manner of questions and didn't help her in the slightest.

So she was forced to find her own coping methods.  Before they left Haven, those methods usually revolved around drinking so much that when she fell asleep, even if she _did_ dream, she didn't remember later and thus there was nothing to bother her.  The headaches and dehydration the next morning seemed a fair trade at first. 

When she, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric had to leave Haven, bringing that much alcohol wasn't an option.  There had been legends about one of the Hero of Ferelden's companions, but legends were of little use.  Instead, Morgan pushed herself.  She stayed up for days at a time, going to the very limits of her endurance to fall into near unconsciousness.  There weren't many dreams then.

Morgan couldn't rid herself of them entirely though.  Writing what she remembered down in her old, mostly full leather journal helped some.  Talking with others about them helped more.  That in itself was a problem.  While exceptionally friendly and being able to make friends easily, it took a great deal of trust for her to let anyone past the surface.  She liked all her companions, but couldn't trust them enough to let them see her weak or afraid.

There was some relief after traveling to Val Royeaux.  The elven rogue, Sera, immediately felt like a kindred spirit.  Both dwarf and elf had a tendency to chatter when nervous, and their thoughts spilled from their lips before they had time to think about what they said.  Sera's mind also worked differently than most peoples'.

Plenty of others probably wrote her off as simple-minded, but Morgan could see past that.  She'd lived that.  The most important part though, was that the younger woman seemed to instantly pick up on the anxiety and depression Morgan had had since a very young age. Being called adorable by a pretty blonde with an infectious laugh was also a considerable boost to Morgan's practically nonexistent ego.

Varric helped, too.  After telling Morgan she was one of the unluckiest people since the Champion of Kirkwall, he gave her several of his books to occupy what little spare time she had.  They also traded stories of the dwarves in the Carta and in the Merchant Guild.  Morgan had heard the Tethras name before, both as a reader and as a dwarf.  She'd even been to Kirkwall once, before the whole qunari mess.

Combined, these things made the dreams easier to deal with, but didn't help with everything else.  There was _a lot_ of everything else.  Morgan was good with a bow, proudly bringing down game with a single shot.  But she wasn't hunting rabbits or pheasants any more.  She was killing _people_.  After the first battle in the Hinterlands, Morgan had wretched over and over again until there was nothing left but bile.

While firmly on the side of mage freedom, the loss of life on both sides made her heart ache.  So many of the bodies they came across seemed like children to her own quarter century of life.  Children too young to have even had a harrowing, and men and women looking so small and young in their shiny new Templar armor...

To Morgan's surprise, it had been Cassandra Pentaghast, the stiff, stern Seeker that offered comfort after that first skirmish.  In a calm, quiet voice, Cassandra had told Morgan of her own first taste of real battle, and how she'd had violent night terrors for weeks after.  Though Morgan was certain she'd never measure up to the famed Right Hand of the Divine, it was comforting to know that at some point, Cassandra had been just as new and inexperienced as Morgan was now.

Somehow, she made it through those first few weeks without a full mental breakdown.  By the time they had reached the Storm Coast, she had more or less gotten used to the dreams.  They were still strange, and occasionally unsettling, but she no longer feared going to sleep.

The Storm Coast was exactly as it had been when she had arrived by ship from the Free Marches; wind, rain, crashing waves, and thick, heavy gray clouds as far as the eye could see.  Morgan, Varric, Cassandra and Solas traipsed down through trees and steep hills towards the beach.  The wet, stony land was littered with small wrecked boats, and huge piles of sun-bleached drift wood.  How the sun managed to get out enough even just _fade_ something was a mystery.

Thankfully, the rained had lessened to a light drizzle since that morning, barely audible over the crashing waves.  Everyone had oilskin cloaks to keep out the rain, hoods drawn up.  The second their feet hit the beach, everyone stopped to ready their weapons.  Morgan strung her bow, nocking an arrow to the string as Varric made sure Bianca was ready. 

Back at Haven, a handsome young man with a _very_ Tevinter name—Cremissius Aclassi—had approached the Inquisition on behalf of the Iron Bull, commander of the Bull's Chargers, a mercenary company.  Iron Bull said he and his people wanted to join up.  The qunari mercenary had offered information on a Tevinter smuggling operation, and Leliana had vetted the company.  The Bull's Chargers had been operating in Orlais for several years, and had hundreds of excellent references.

Reputable or not, Morgan wasn't about to turn anyone away who _willingly_ volunteered to help with this nug-fucking mess, not without talking to them first, at least.  So there they were, damp, cold, and creeping along the beach, towards a steep rock outcropping that reached almost to the edge of the water.  They were all doing their best not to make any noise, but with millions of smooth, worn pebbles underfoot, it was _not_ an easy task.

Though she wouldn't say a word of it to anyone, Morgan's mind was filled with worry as to what the Iron Bull might think of her.  She hardly knew what to think of herself, so imagining what a Tal-Vasoth—the Carta traded with everyone, including former followers of the Qun—mercenary would think of a former lyrium smuggler turned religious icon was next to impossible. 

Even though Morgan had very good instincts, and was excellent at reading a person's tone and expressions, she constantly second guessed herself.  She always worried that she might have said something wrong; if she'd offended or come off as cruel or simple minded.  It had always been that way for her.

Being the next messiah didn't grant you freedom from anything, especially mental ills and worries.  While she didn't support the Chantry, she felt very strongly about the teachings of Andraste herself.  The way devout people like Cassandra spoke about her, calling her the 'Herald of Andraste', it made her feel like a fraud.  She _was_ the only one that could seal rifts, but she wasn't sure what she was beyond that.  She wasn't sure if she would feel better or worse about the whole thing if she were more devout, or more agnostic.

She was yanked from her fretting by the unmistakable sounds of a battle.  Her eyes went instantly to Cassandra; even though the Seeker had been forcing Morgan to take more of a leadership role, the dwarf still looked to the older woman for battle strategy. 

Smash and grab and run fights were what she was used to, nothing like what she had to deal with now.  With some of the basic hand signals she'd taught them all, Cassandra signaled Morgan to fade to Stealth and have a look around the corner of the rock outcropping.  Observe, report, but do _not_ engage!

Morgan complied quickly, hardly making a sound as she trotted across the beach, hands tight and ready on her bow as she peered around the rock.  Not far away, men in Tevinter armor clashed against a much less uniform group of humans, elves, dwarves, and the biggest qunari that Morgan had ever seen.  Just by looking at him, it was easy to see why he had the name 'Iron Bull'.

If Cassandra had been any less of what she was, she might have jumped when Morgan reappeared at her elbow, rattling off a quick report.  After a very brief discussion, Cassandra gave her orders.  She signaled Morgan and Varric up to the top of the high right outcropping to hammer the flanks, giving Solas leave to do as he saw fit, but to stay at a distance.  The Seeker waited until the archers were in position before she charged into the fray.

 Solas threw up barriers around them all, coming around the rock to stand below the archers, adding to their salvo of bolts and arrows with his own fire and lightning.  For all that he was much more interested in spirit magic, Morgan had noticed that he was actually very good at the 'flashier' types of magic.

The second she aimed, Morgan slid away from herself.  She was still very aware of her surroundings, but her emotions were pushed down deep.  If she was angry enough, she didn't need to, but she could conjure no great anger for these smugglers, no matter who they were.  It was easier not to feel when she was killing.  She knew it couldn't last forever, but it worked for now.

Her first shot put a man on his knees, screaming with an arrow in his kidney. Her stomach wrenched as her second arrow went through his throat, and he went silent. Next, she targeted a big man with a massive broadsword. Long bows were made to punch through armor, and her shot would have done just that, if the asshole hadn't swung around with his oversized weapon.

As it was, he took the full force of the shot at the end of his sword, knocking it back and yanking his arm wide. The qunari, swinging a broadax almost as big as Morgan herself, came forward. He decapitated the enemy so cleanly that Morgan was almost as impressed as she was shocked.

It really was easy to see how he'd gotten his name, too. Unlike most qunari, whose horns swept back from their brow, the Iron Bull's horns stood straight out from the sides of his head. They stood as wide as his massive shoulders, the pointed ends thrust skyward at sharp right angles.

The fight was not a long one. The combined forces of the Chargers and the Inquisition part crushed the smugglers with minimal effort, and soon the beach was littered with bodies, hopeful seabirds and crows circling over head, waiting. As she and Varric slid down the rock and moved in, Morgan tried not to look at the pieces, or smell the flesh that still smoked from fire or lightning bolts.

 

000

 

Iron Bull had taken note of the Inquisition archers after they both saved him and his people from a few close calls. The fletching on the female dwarf's arrow had actually brushed his bicep as it buzzed past to bite into a 'Vint's throat. As they both drew in, he took more note of her. She matched the general description that his lieutenant had come back with.

The lowered hood showed long, dark brown hair pulled back from a high, pale brow in a braid that was pinned in a twist at the base of her neck. The rain stuck stray wisps to her freckled cheeks in dark curls. A narrow bridge flared into a wide, equally freckled nose with a small scar on the rounded tip. The nose led down to a full, pink mouth, the slightly thicker bottom lip giving her a gentle pout.

The dwarf’s jaw was squared, with a delicate, slightly clefted chin. The hazel eyes under her dark, thick brows were more green than brown, with short, thick lashes. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her nervousness and anxiety were easy enough to read when she got close enough.

Obviously good with a bow, it was equally obvious that she wasn’t accustomed to killing. That was fine; you didn’t have to like killing to be good at it. But she didn’t weep or shy away from the death around her, squaring her shoulders and keeping her head held high. Her only tell was the tightness of her jaw.

Morgan paused by Cassandra, looking to the older woman for guidance. Morgan had worked with mercenaries a few times with the Carta, but knew nothing of their contracts or how one negotiated them. On the way to the coast, Cassandra had insisted that Morgan be the one to decide on whether or not to hire the Bull’s Chargers, and no only gave a brisk nod in Iron Bull’s direction.

And once she was looking, Morgan found it quite impossible to look away. The qunari was even larger up close, towering over even the tallest humans in his company. His hard, angular, and scarred features made him almost frightening at first. But there was something in his eye—there was a metal patch where his left eye should have been—that made him seem… softer, somehow.

After the initial shock of his appearance, Morgan realized that he was beautiful. His long jaw was well defined, leading down to a strong, narrow chin. His long, slightly hooked nose grew close to his face, leading down to a wide, full mouth, nicked with scars and framed by lines caused by frequent laughter. The remaining eye was a stormy sort of green, and his gaze was sharp and intelligent.

His chest was naked save for a short leather sleeve on his left shoulder, belted around him like a harness. Scars covered his heavily muscled torso, the pale grey slashed with silver. There were so many, most of them years old. Almost any one of them could have killed a lesser person, and after seeing the Iron Bull fight, Morgan understood just how tough he was.

Scars and all, to her, he was breathtaking. Beautiful in a raw, primal sort of way, and Morgan felt her chest tighten and her stomach flutter. Why were there so many pretty people at the end of the fucking world?! So far, the only companion she hadn’t imagined tumbling was Solas. All these pretty men and women, and she going to be too busy saving the world to get laid. She must have pissed the Maker off something awful.

As Morgan continued her approach, Cassandra followed a few yards behind, Solas and Varric trailing after. The Iron Bull was speaking to his company, voice pitched for battle in order to reach them all over the crash of waves and the hiss of rain. It was a glorious voice, deep and rumbling like thunder.

“Chargers, stand down!” He turned to a young man, and Morgan recognized him as the messenger from Haven. “Krem, how'd we do?”

'Krem' responded in the sharp, orderly tone of a trained soldier, but his words and stance were relaxed. “Five 'r six wounded, Chief, no dead!”

Bull gave an approving nod. “That's what I like to hear! Have the throat cutters finish up and break out the casks.” Krem moved to do as he was told, and all at once, all of the Iron Bull's attention was on Morgan. She had to fight not to go rigid like prey caught in the gaze of a hunter. “So, you're with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it.”

For a moment, Morgan was taken aback. There was no comment about her being the Herald, or any mention of Andraste or her mark. There was none of the dismissiveness she was used to. It took her a moment to realize that he was looking at her like an equal, like just a regular person who was doing their best to survive the hole ripped in the sky.

“Iron Bull, I take it?” she said, his casualness helping her find her voice.

He nodded, giving a wry grin that tugged at the scars at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, the horns usually give it away.” He gestured for her to follow with a wave of his hand. “C'mon, drinks are coming.” Morgan followed him to a cluster of crates near some boulders, Cassandra trailing a few yards behind while Solas and Varric hung back.

Bull sat down on one of the boulders with a soft grunt, and Morgan leaned against a crate across from him, not wanting to hop up and have her feet dangling off the ground. Bull rested his elbows on his knees, then lifted a hand as Krem returned. “I assume you remember Cremissius Aclassi, my lieutenant?”

Krem nodded respectfully in Morgan's direction, a gesture she was still getting used to. “Good to see you again, Your Worship,” he said. Bull saw the dwarf wince at the title as Krem looked back to him. “Throat cutters are done, Chief.”

Bull made a show of frowning. “Already? Have 'em check again. Don't want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away.” Mirth glittered in his eye, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “No offense, Krem.”

Krem shrugged, bouncing slightly on his heels. “None taken. At least a bastard know's who 'is mother was.” Grinning impishly, he started walking away. Then he tossed over his shoulder, “puts 'im one up on you qunari, right?”

Iron Bull snorted, still grinning as he looked back to Morgan. “Anyway, you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it, and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

“Well… how much would this cost me— _us_ , exactly?” Morgan said, finding her voice again. The question seemed the obvious one to ask, even if she didn’t know nug-shit about mercenary contracts.

“Wouldn’t cost you anything personally, unless you wanna buy drinks later.” He gave her a roguish half smile that made her stomach do a somersault. If he gave everyone that look, he’d probably never have to pay for his own drinks ever again. He continued.

“Your ambassador… what’s her name? Josephine? We can go through her, get the payments set up. The gold’ll take care of itself, don’t you worry about that. All that matters is that we’re worth it.”

And after seeing how the Chargers fought and worked together, Morgan was inclined to agree. Despite being vastly different sorts of people—elves, dwarves, humans—both in weapons and in fighting style, they fought as a unit, rather than just a group of individuals. They were very good at their jobs. “They’re clearly an excellent company,” Morgan said, and she meant it.

The pride on his face and in his voice was obvious, and Morgan had to hide a smile. “They are, but you’re not just getting the boys.” He pushed away from the boulder, rising up, and up, and _up_ , towering above her. His voice lowered to a deep rumble, almost a growl. “You’re getting _me_.”

His eye glittered, already looking forward to all the potential battles to be had. “You want a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man. Demons? Dragons? The bigger the better.” He moved past her, standing so that he no longer loomed.

“We’re certainly up to our asses in demons,” Morgan said bitterly.

Iron Bull laughed, a rich, hearty sound that rumbled up through his broad chest. “Did you mean _your_ ass? ‘Cause that’s really not that many.”

What tension remained in Morgan melted away, and she didn’t fight the smile. “Wow, short jokes right away, huh? You’re certainly direct.” Jokes about her height and stature had stopped bothering her years ago.

“Figured you wouldn’t have time for anything else.” His grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression. “There’s one other thing, though. Might be useful, might piss you off. You ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Morgan’s eyes widened slightly, and wariness trickled down her spine. “They’re like… enforcers, right? For the law and rules of the Qun?”

He seemed the tiniest bit impressed for a moment, then shrugged. “Not enforcers like the Carta use them. I’d go closer to spies, but, yeah. That’s them.” He paused for a beat, and Morgan felt the full scrutiny of his intelligent gaze. “Or, well… _us_.”

The ex-smuggler just stared up at the big man. She’d met spies before, and even _been_ one on a few occasions. You didn’t just up and say, ‘oh! By the way, I’m a spy!’ You could dance around it with innuendo and metaphor all you liked, but… Her thick brows came together, and her head tilted slightly to the side as she regarded Bull.

“You’re a qunari spy… and you just… _told_ me?”

“The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach,” he explained. “Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening.” Morgan stiffened slightly. “I also get reports from other agents all over Orlais. Sign me on, and I’ll share those with your people.”

Morgan could practically _hear_ Cassandra bristle with wariness behind her. She herself wasn’t a suspicious person by nature, but the Carta had pounded home many hard lessons; her trust was hard earned and not easily given. But she let Bull continue, still loathe to turn away such a powerful—and useful—potential ally.

His face and tone were open and earnest. “Whatever happened at the Conclave is _bad_.” ‘Bad’ felt like a bit of an understatement, in Morgan’s opinion. “Someone needs to close that hole in the sky.” He gave a quick, pointed glance at Morgan’s left hand. “So… whatever I am, I’m on _your_ side.”

Cassandra had advanced to stand beside Morgan, her arms crossed over her breastplate. The Seeker’s intense stare drew Bull’s attention. “What would you send back in these reports of yours, exactly?” she said. The look that had seasoned soldiers scurrying to obey seemed to have no effect on the Iron Bull.

“Just enough to keep my superiors happy; nothing that would compromise your opperations.” He split his attention between the two women. “The qunari want to know if they need to launch a full scale invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. You let me send word of what you’re doing, and it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone.”

Avoiding another qunari/Kirkwall sort of incident certainly _would_ be a good thing. Cassandra was still frowning. “And what would you be telling _us_?” Morgan was hoping that adding to Lelianas’s large network, plus her own remaining connections with the Carta would only be a good thing.

“Enemy movements, suspicious activity, intriguing gossip. It’s a bit of everything. Alone, it’s not much, but if your spymaster’s worth a damn, she’ll put it to good use.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed and one brow raised. “She?”

Bull grinned a little. “Figured you guys would be checking me and mine out, so I did a little research myself. Plus, I’ve always had a weakness for red-heads.”

Morgan realized that both of them were looking at her now, waiting for a decision. Bull had made his case, and apparently, been quite honest. She swallowed, and met his gaze squarely. “So long as you run all the information you send back by Leliana first, you’re in.”

The look on the Iron Bull’s face could only be described as delighted. “Excellent!” He saw Krem approaching. “Krem, tell the men to finish drinking on the road! The Chargers just got hired!”

Krem looked aghast. “What about the casks, Chief? We just opened them up! With _axes_!”

“Find some way to seal ‘em. You’re Tevinter, right? Try blood magic!”

“Hey, you’re not wasting booze on my account,” Morgan cut in. She had known nothing but rain and wet and stale trail rations for days now. She _needed_ a good drink, and didn’t care what Cassandra thought.

Bull looked surprised, and Krem grinned triumphantly. “You heard Her Worship, Chief!” he said cheekily. “We’re having drinks!”

“Call me Morgan, Krem, please,” Morgan said, making a face. “Or Cadash, if you have to be formal.”

Still grinning, Krem saluted. “Yes, Ma’am!” He turned and went back to where the Chargers were gathering around the casks. Shyly returning the smile Bull was throwing in her direction, Morgan followed, the rest of the Inquisition party on her heels.

 

000

 

The trek _back_ from the Storm Coast was much livelier than the trip down. With the Chargers and all their supplies, it was slower, too. There were two wagons, one with covering pulled over arches of wood for the wounded to ride in. Morgan saw Bull fall in behind that wagon more than once, checking in on and chatting with his wounded people. The dark skinned man riding with them appeared to be the company healer, and he and Bull talked for a while.

It made Morgan smile; spy for the Qun or not, Bull seemed be a good man to genuinely cared about the people he lead. She wanted to believe that he was being completely honest with them. She wanted to like him. The fact that he hadn’t once called her ‘Herald’ or ‘My Lady’ was making it hard not to.

He just called her ‘Boss’, and she was glad for it. More of her suspicions eased when she realized he was the first to treat her like just another person since the whole Breach mess started. It eased some of her tension, and her shoulders didn’t feel quite so tight.

A few times, the wagons’ weels sank into the mud. Solas was quick to help, lifting both back to solid ground with magic. The bronto team pulling the wagon with the wounded did _not_ appreciate the help, so every time _that_ wagon sank, it had to be pushed out by hand, and sheer brute force.

Even though the rain was light, it didn’t show any signs of stopping, and everyone pulled up the hoods on their oilskin cloaks. Well, everyone except Iron Bull. His cloak was big enough for him, but the hood was completely useless. Morgan’s mind wandered, thinking that maybe he could use a hood if it had some kind of hooks that slipped over his horns.

With every step she took, she gathered more and more mud on her boots; you couldn’t even see the metal of her grieves any more. No matter where she walked, she still seemed to be picking up pounds of mud that stuck fast, and her thick thighs started to burn with the added weight.

Bull caught up to her as she sat on a fallen log, using a sheathed dagger to scrape as much of the mud away as she could. After she cleaned and put away the dagger, his left hand came into view. She noticed that he was missing the tips of the last two fingers on it. Nodding her thanks, she took it, and he hauled her to her feet. Walking again, they fell into step together.

“There’s room on the wagon, Boss,” he said. His tone wasn’t condescending, just a neutral suggestion.

Morgan shook her head, water droplets raining from the edge of her hood. “I’m fine.”

“Just seemed like your hip was bothering you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed slightly. She’d developed problems with her right hip joint in her late teens, and none of the healers her mother had taken her to had been able to provide any kind of answer or relief. Now the joint pained her whenever she did a great deal of walking. Which was all the time, now. She’d gotten good at hiding her pain and discomfort, and had _thought_ she’d still been doing it. Apparently not well enough to fool a Ben-Hassrath.

“I’ve got old injuries that bother me sometimes,” Bull explained. “I know when someone’s trying to hide a limp.”

She wasn’t sure that she liked him being able to pick up on her weaknesses so easily, but her eyes were drawn to the metal brace buckled over his left boot, steadying his ankle. She sighed, giving a shrug. “It hurts, but I’m used to it.” Her eyes were drawn to those around them. “Besides, it’s a bad idea to let people working for me think I want special treatment. If they walk, so will I.”

There was a stubborn set to her square jaw and full mouth that told Bull that there would be no arguing the point. He smiled a little. Morgan noticed, and felt her own lips curving upward. Others might not have liked Bull’s smile, for all his scars. What Morgan had found attractive had always been a little different from most.

“I heard you were Carta before this whole mess,” Bull said conversationally.

“Everyone in Ferelden and Orlais has probably heard that by now,” she muttered, “but, yeah, Morgan Cadash, former smuggler, at your service.” She did half of a mocking bow as they walked.

Bull snorted. “Your ambassador’s gotta be having fun trying to sell that to the Chantry.”

Morgan winced, and made a face. “Josephine works so hard… But in all honesty,” her voice lowered, nearly inaudible over the patter of the rain and the chatter of people, “the Chantry can go fuck itself with rashvine nettle.”

Doing his best to stifle another bout of laughter, Bull shook his head. “I’ll be honest, Boss, you’re not at all what I expected.”

The comment made her smile. “I hear that so often lately. Anyways, dwarves usually go unnoticed until someone wants something.”

The qunari made a show of looking ponderous, tapping his chin. “Unnoticed, huh? I’m not really familiar with the concept.”

It was Morgan’s turn to muffle a laugh. “At least you won’t get lost and nearly trampled in a crowd.”

“Yeah, but Orliesans get really mad if you crush their fancy little toes.”

The laughter was impossible to hold back this time. “Hah! If they didn’t see you coming and get out of your way, then it’s their own fault. Though with their heads so far up each others’ asses, I guess I can see how they _might_ miss you.”

It was the first normal conversation she’d had in a very long time. It felt good. Sera was easy to talk to about just about anything, but her devotion to the Chantry and Andraste sometimes made things uncomfortable. Morgan and Varric got along famously, but there was an awkwardness to their conversations that she couldn’t quite place. She got none of that from Bull.

While it took a great deal for her to trust someone emotionally, she made friends easily, and it was hard not to like someone as friendly as the Iron Bull. Though positive attention from a man who _wasn’t_ trying to bed her was a refreshing rarity. At least she _thought_ he wasn’t trying. If he was, he was taking his time about it. She was still wary of him, but she was always happy to give people the benefit of the doubt.

“If we’re being honest here,” she ventured, “I thought you were Tal-Vashoth until you told me otherwise.” There were plenty of Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth in the Free Marches, so the terms and their meanings weren’t all that strange to her. She also knew how those still following the Qun usually saw those who had left or rejected it. She hoped he wouldn’t be offended by her assumption.

To her relief, Bull just shrugged. “That’s usually what I want people to think, so I’m not really insulted.”

“Would you be insulted if I told you that you weren’t like any of the Qun qunari I’ve met, either?” She bit her lip, regretting the words the moment she said them. Her anxiety made her constantly worried about how people perceived her or her opinions.

Surprising her, he laughed. “Yeah, most of us you meet outside of our land are military, and they all usually seem to have giant sticks up their asses.”

Morgan raised her brows at him. “I wouldn’t have put it _quite_ like that,” she said.

“I would. Though, to be fair, any that met you would probably just see you as someone who supplied the ‘Vints with lyrium.”

Realization spread across Morgan’s face, and she winced. “Oh, shit, you’re right. Makes sense.” She lowered her head; she couldn’t say that she’d _never_ sold to Tevinter mages, so Bull wasn’t wrong. She really hoped he wouldn’t think less of her for it, and it pained her to think that he might. There went her anxiety again.

He somehow seemed to notice, and continued speaking. “Did you do a lot of business with Tal-Vashoth in the Free Marches?”

She perked up a little. “Vashoth, mostly, but yeah. They don’t have much use for lyrium, but the Carta are just about the only ones that can get them horn balm.”

Suddenly much more interested, Bull’s head snapped around. “Wait, you have horn balm?” He sounded painfully hopeful.

Morgan blinked. “Well, not _on_ me, but I can probably get you some if you want.” Her smiled widened at the look of delight on her new companion’s face.

“That would be amazing! I ran out months ago and haven't been able to get _any_.” He lifted a hand and scratched absently at the thick, dark skin at the base of his horns.

“I’ll send a letter to Haven as soon as we get to the Crossroads,” Morgan promised. “I think we bought most of the stuff left over after that mess in Kirkwall, so they may try to unload a lot on me if I ask.”

“I get the feeling you might be trying to bribe me, Boss,” he teased, grinning widely.

She blushed, and glanced away from him. “It’s a way to say thank you. Maker knows it’ll be good to have someone with your experience and connections around, so I might as well do what I can to make things pleasant for you and yours.”

Her eyes drifted over the company, watching them talk and laugh and complain. Varric was uncharacteristically silent, and looked about as happy as a half drowned cat. Morgan could understand. Both dwarves had been born and raised in cities, and Varric obviously preferred buildings and cobblestones to trees and mud.

While Morgan understood, she didn’t necessarily agree. Even growing up in Ostwick, she had always preferred the country, spending hours on the edge of the forest outside the city. She had also been fascinated by the giant tree in the alienage.

Her mother, Rebka Cadash, had made sure to expose her only child to all manner of faiths and cultures. She had told Morgan stories of The Stone, that she’d had from her own parents. She read to Morgan from any books on the Elvhen pantheon that she could find, and sought out elves willing to speak of their beliefs.

Education about the Chantry and Andraste had been easy, with no shortage of Chantry sisters about. Books had been the main source of knowledge about Tevinter, Rivain, and Antiva. There had even been a Tal-Vashoth healer passing through once that had been willing to talk about the Qun.

All this education had instilled a deep respect for personal freedoms and beliefs in the young dwarf, planting the seeds for a sharp and angry intolerance for any type of discrimination. It was a mostly human city, but the dwarf children where Morgan had lived had found her strange. As a result, most of her friends had been elves. She was witness to the unfair treatment of her friends, and it had only made her angrier as she grew up and learned of things like Halamshiral.

Morgan shook her head, trying not to think too much of home, and the friends she’d left behind. She’d had Josephine dispatch letters to her family and few close friends, but she knew most of them were probably still worried. _‘If they could see me now_ ,’ she thought with another shake of her head.

Imagining her friends’ reactions to her new title was both hilarious and painful. Picturing their faces when they found out that the blasphemous little dwarf that questioned the Chantry at every turn, was actually the ‘Herald of Andraste’, made her smile, even as a lump rose in her throat and tears stung her eyes. She didn’t have many friends, to the ones that she _did_ have were especially dear.

Morgan didn’t miss Ostwick and her home, she just missed the people there.

Before she could get too wrapped up in her own thoughts, the terrain became more rocky and uneven. That, combined with the prevailing mud, meant that the wagons needed extra help. Morgan also had to pay even more attention to where she put her feet.

They stopped only once to feed and water the brontos. Morgan’s bad hip had been grinding for hours, and the short rest did nothing alleviate the pain. She continued on, every inch the typical stubborn dwarf. It hurt so badly that she wanted to cry. But she was fairly certain that religious icons weren’t allowed to cry, no matter how sore, tired, or homesick they were.

 

000

 

The rain let up shortly before the sun went down. The Chargers pitched their tents in a circle around the wagons, the Inquisition pitching theirs beside the wagons. The Dalish elf with the Chargers—who Morgan found out was actually _called_ Dalish—got fires going faster than anyone Moran had ever seen, and where she found the dry wood was a complete mystery.

But with an opportunity to dry her sodden clothes and herself, Morgan wasn’t going to question the how of it. She said thank you, and dropped down by the fire. Once the tent she shared with Cassandra was pitched, Morgan stripped out of her wet things into the spare clothes she had wrapped in tight oilskin packages.

When she came back out, the Chargers had what looked like a whole boar skewered over a fire, and chopped vegetables were going into a huge, cast iron cauldron. Without the rain, the mood had lifted considerably, and Morgan smiled as she watched, sitting down by the fire, her other clothes draped nearby to dry.

With food cooking, and drink soon flowing freely, an aura of relaxed joy settled over the camp. The chatter and laughter of friends trading stories and jokes filled the air. Even Cassandra seemed somewhat at ease. Morgan was happy to just watch from her spot by the fire, legs crossed under her.

She unpinned her hair, the thick braid falling to the middle of her back. She undid that too, the usually straight length turned wavy from its long captivity. She slowly worked a wooden comb through it, swearing at the occasional tangle.

When she was done, her hair hung in chocolate waves to her lower back, shorter wisps floating round her face and jaw. Rummaging in her pack, she pulled out another tightly wrapped oilskin parcel. From it she drew a large ball of thick burgundy yarn, a half-finished hat, and a small, carved wooden hook.

All her crochet patterns had been destroyed with most of her belongings in the Conclave explosion, but she had been making hats for so long that she could work the pattern from memory. It was so cold in Haven, and there were so many refugees, that she’d started making hats and handwarmers for anyone that would take them. Sera had a pair of handwarmers striped black and yellow like bees.

Morgan would have _liked_ to have used the new sock pattern she’d bought in the Free Marches before she left, but it had been destroyed with all the others, and she’d only been able to find _knitting_ patterns for socks so far. So she was back to hats. The repetition of the stitches was comforting and familiar, and helped her fill the time.

Beside her, Varric was tending to Bianca. Today it mostly involved drying all the intricate parts and putting dabs of oil in a few places. Normally, Morgan would have been trying to wheedle more information out him about the weapon, being the daughter of a weapons smith made her naturally curious about weapons she wasn’t familiar with.

But tonight, she had her own task to focus on. The pattern she was working was a warm one, with small, tight stitches to keep out the cold. She was working to create alternating bands of a pebbled texture, and must have been quiet enough that Varric noticed. After a while, he asked, “I thought you finished that hat weeks ago?”

Slightly startled, Morgan blinked up at the other dwarf. “Sorry, what?”

He nodded at the wool in Morgan’s hands. “The hat; could have sworn that you finished it well before the Coast.”

“Well… I did,” she mumbled. “Someone at the Crossroads needed it more.” She was smiling, but wouldn’t look up from her crochet.

“Andtraste’s ass, kid…” Varric shook his head. “Keep that selfless charity up, and they’ll never stop believing that you’re the Herald of Andraste.”

Morgan went still, hands and yarn dropping into her lap. She stared into the fire for a long time. She took a breath, held it, and then let it out in a rush. “Maybe they shouldn’t stop thinking that,” she murmured, still staring into the flames. “I’m not saying that _I_ think I’m chosen, but… All those people, they’re so fucking _scared_. First the mage-templar war, then the Conclave. The damn sky’s ripped open and they need something to believe in. Might as well be me.”

She didn’t have to look up to know that Varric was staring at her. “Doesn’t that make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

No, it _terrified_ her. But she couldn’t admit that aloud. It would make her fear real, with no way to keep it hidden any more. She knew she was allowed to be scared; a person could only be brave if they _were_ scared. But she couldn’t let it out, not around people. She had friends now, yes, but none she trusted enough to be able to cry in front of them.

“Of course it does,” she finally said. “The most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in my entire life, but…” She trailed off and gave a helpless shrug.

“But you want to help them,” Varric finished for her. When she looked at him, he was giving her a strange, sad sort of smile. Cassandra was watching her too, respect in her eyes. Instead of making her feel proud, it just made Morgan feel hollow. She didn’t feel worthy of anyone’s admiration or respect; she just felt tired.

Silence fell and dragged. Morgan tried to pick up her crochet again, but couldn’t focus on the stitches. Hoping for a distraction, she looked over at the Chargers. They had started singing some bawdy tavern song, one she knew, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. Her eyes found Bull laughing and smiling with his people. He met her gaze and raised his tankard in her direction.

Her stomach flipped and her chest tightened again, the way it always did when someone she found attractive looked her way. It was impossible not to smile back. She could smell the food cooking now. The stew was full of spices, and the spitted boar was dripping fat into the fire. Her stomach growled; it would taste so much better than trail rations.

It was hard not to feel better in such good company, and with the promise of delicious food in the near future. She picked up her yarn and hook and started working again. She didn’t notice Bull until he sat down beside her, offering her a tin cup of what smelled like mead.

She accepted it gratefully, crochet going back into her bag. The mead was strong and full of spices. It had been heated over the fire, and warmed Morgan’s stomach as she drank. She eyed Bull over the cup. “How did you know I liked mead?”

“Noticed you liked the sweeter stuff on the coast. And I think pretty much anyone would like a hot drink after a day like today.” He was leaning against one of the wagons’ wheels, long legs extended out before him, ankles crossed. He seemed perfectly at ease. “And alcohol makes it better.”

“Not wrong there,” Morgan admitted, taking another drink.

“What, none for me, Tiny?” Varric said.

“No, I’m busy sucking up to the boss,” Bull sniffed. Both dwarves laughed, Varric setting Bianca down and going in search of a drink himself. Bull looked back to Morgan. “I meant to ask earlier, Boss. You’re good with that bow. Who taught you?”

It was an innocent question, one that she had no problem answering. “My father. He owned a smithy in Ostwick. When business was good, he was too busy to hunt himself, so he sent me. He never spent money on things he could make or get himself. So we never did much business with the butcher.” She expected Bull to ask why she’d joined the Carta when she could have inherited a smithy, or started her own, but he didn’t press.

“Don’t nobles get pissy when common folk hunt on their lands?” Bull asked.

“Only during spring, when does had fawns. The local lord seemed to have soft spot for animals.” Morgan smiled into her drink. “He even paid to shelter homeless dogs and cats. Servants said his manor was full of scruffy mutts and grumpy old cats. Excellent way to spend one’s money, if you ask me.”

“There’s worse things for nobles to spend money on,” Bull said.

“I personally think he was supposed to have been Ferelden, the way he was with dogs. But I’ve been told the same thing about myself.” On an empty stomach, the mead entered her system quickly, the tingle of alcohol warming her cheeks and easing some of her anxiety.

The silence that settled now was a more comfortable one, even if Bull’s nearness still made her heart flutter a little. He really was nice to look at, at least to Morgan. With so many lovely companions, she didn’t know what she was going to do with herself. Her body apparently hadn’t realized that the world was ending.

She enjoyed sex a great deal, but her anxiety and self-doubt made anything casual difficult for her, especially with men. Like many others, she’d had encounters at taverns that ended up in bed, but they had all been with women. Women were easier for her, for whatever reason. Thankfully, the call that the food was ready pulled her from the unwanted self-examination.

Travel dishes in hand—varying from old military tins to hand carved wooden bowls—everyone lined up behind the stew pot and rotisserie. Morgan felt strange, and it wasn’t because of the drink. It took her longer than she would have liked to admit to realize the cause. No one was staring. No one was whispering about her or pointing at her hand, or even making the sign against evil.

Morgan was just another person in line to get some food. It felt good. Better than good, it was the best she’d felt in a long time.

Not far off, Cassandra and Varric were waiting until the line died down. “This is the first time I’ve seen the kid really smile, Seeker,” Varric said.

“Anyone would be glad for such a meal after days of trail rations, Varric.”

The author rolled his eyes. “You don’t see it, do you? You call her ‘Herald’ with every other breath, and I keep bringing it up, too. Now she’s met people— _friendly_ people—that are treating her like a normal person.”

“She is _not_ —” Cassandra began.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Varric snapped. “ _Look_ at her, Seeker! She’s happy!”

Cassandra opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, eyes on the younger woman. Morgan _did_ look happy. She smiled plenty on the road and at Haven, but this was undeniably different. People spoke to her and she didn’t shy away, smiling at them and laughing. And from the look of things, she was making a few sly jokes, too. She was… _having fun._

“She is probably more at home with mercenaries than with the Inquisition,” Cassandra said dryly.

“Carta doesn’t use mercs as much as you think,” the dwarf said with a wave of his hand. “Mostly in house. That girls is happy because she gets to be normal for a few minutes.” He shook his head and chuckled. “A Free Marcher Carta dwarf working with a Ben-Hassrath spy… That sounds like the start of a bad romance novel.”

“You will _not_ be writing the history of these events, Varric,” Cassandra said firmly. “I remember your telling of the last one. I still only believe half of it.”

“The Tale of the Champion is still a best seller, Seeker,” Varric reminded her. She made a disgusted noise. “And besides, wouldn’t that be amazing? The torrid romance of the Herald of Andraste and the qunari spy? The sky torn asunder; can our hero save the world _and_ find true love?”

“Who would read such nonsense?” the woman huffed.

“You’d be surprised by the sort of people that like romance novels.” Cassandra made another disgusted noise, rolled her eyes, and walked away, Varric chuckling at her back. But his smile turned sad as he looked back to the Morgan. He knew she was older than she looked, but she still seemed like such a kid to him. Just like Hawke had. Shit. He hoped this hero had better luck than Marian had.

 


	2. Hunger Pangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan and Bull get to talk alone. There's work to be done in the Hinterlands. WARNING: Mentions of past self harm/wanting to self harm in this chapter!

 

 

Hunger Pangs:

 

Morgan returned to her seat by the fire, smiling broadly. Her travel dishes were plain metal, a chunk of boar meat sitting in a bowl of steaming stew. She could smell onions and all kinds of spices; she saw potatoes, carrots, and what looked like some kind of chopped pepper.

It was spicy enough to make her whole mouth tingle with the heat, but she devoured it all. The boar was unseasoned, so she sprinkled a bit of the salt she carried with her. It was the perfect addition, and she ate in silence. Bull gave her more mead, and soon she was nearly sweating. But she was too comfortable and well fed to care. When she was done, she cleaned her dish with everyone else in a tub of steaming water that smelled of antiseptic herbs.

She was still smiling when she came back, mind pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol. She stayed up a while longer, listening to the Chargers sing some horribly sappy love ballad. Bull and Varric talked a bit, but she couldn't remember what about. Solas had gone to bed ages ago, and Cassandra was headed that way too.

Guards were posted as people drifted to their own beds. Morgan was perfectly comfortable where she was, and hadn’t even thought about going to bed. She dragged her cloak up around her shoulders, watching the fire. The flames leaped like dancers around the charred, glowing logs, throwing bright and twisting fingers skyward with sparks.

She only realized that she was starting to doze when someone touched her elbow, and she looked over into Bull’s face. “Hey, Boss, you should get some sleep.” She nodded, and mumbled something sleepy and unintelligible before getting to her feet. She was dimly aware of his gaze following her to the tent.

 

000

 

Morgan came awake gasping for breath. Her heart was pounding, trying to beat its way out of her chest. Her clothes clung to the sweat-soaked skin of her back and chest, and the warm air of the tent felt stifling. Tossing off her blanket, she flung herself at the tent flap, fumbling with the ties. When she got them open, she half fell outside, scrambling forward on her hands and knees.

Then she was standing, staring up at the night sky. The clouds had cleared for the most part, the moons and stars shining down. She let out a long, shuddering breath, greedily sucking in the fresh night air. The details of her dream were already fading, but the panic still gripped her. She balled her shaking hands into fists, green light leaking through her fingers.

“You okay, Boss?”

Bull's voice made Morgan jump, whirling around to look for him. Her eyes picked him out easily in the dark, just coming around the corner of the wagon. He looked just the same, except the bracer on his shoulder was gone and he was barefoot. The patch was still in place, though, and the part of Morgan that wasn't focused on _not_ hyperventilating wondered why anyone would sleep in an eye patch, let alone a metal one.

Caught in a vulnerable emotional display, she instantly shut down, turning away quickly. “Bad dreams,” she said thickly.

Even when she was a child, she'd been unable to show pain or weakness around those she didn't know or trust. When she'd been small, she'd broken her arm and been rushed, sobbing in pain, to the healers. The second she was around people other than her mother, the tears stopped, and she just sat in trembling silence.

Bull took a few steps closer, the furrows on his brow deepened. “I thought dwarves _didn't_ dream?” he said slowly. He could tell she didn't want to be seen, but something told him it would be better for him to stay.

“We do when we have _this_ shit, apparently,” she snapped bitterly, giving a wave of her glowing left hand.

The qunari's eyes widened slightly. “Really? Shit, that's…”

“Fucking _terrifying_.” Morgan had spoken without thinking, and flinched at the admission of fear. Dreams weren't supposed to be terrifying, right? They were just silly things the mind did when the body was asleep! She sat down by the dying fire, feeling Bull move to sit a few feet away. She shook her head, still refusing to look at him. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It's stupid…”

Bull was quiet for a few beats, resting his hands in his lap. When he did speak, his voice was calm and easy. “Not really. I still get nightmares about the war in Seheron, sometimes.” He saw her pause, and then some of the tension left her shoulders. So he kept talking.

“I don't know what kind of life you had before, but I'm sure you've seen plenty of awful shit since the Conclave. That's more than enough to produce some pretty nasty dreams. Nothing to be ashamed of. Gotta be extra shitty for you, since you've never dreamed before.”

Morgan ventured a glance to the side at him. He was offering a kind, relaxed smile, one without pity or judgment. But she still had to fight to keep her voice from shaking. “Really?” The look on his face when she spoke was surprisingly familiar. Her mother had given her that look whenever she wanted to give her a hug.

“Shit, yeah,” he said firmly. “Dreams mess with your head; take you back to places you didn't ever want to see again, or come up with whole new situations. The feelings they bring up are real too, even if the cause isn't.” He shrugged. “But I'm told qunari dream differently from most folks, so I dunno how it is for humans and elves.”

Morgan had pegged Bull as a veteran early on. He moved so casually, but it was impossible to get rid of all the mannerisms of a soldier. You also didn't learn that battle-pitched yell just by being a mercenary. She also knew about the bitter conflict in Seheron. Part of her wanted to reach out, to try to offer some kind of comfort to the big man. But she was too twisted up in her own mind, and didn't know him well enough to comment on something so personal.

But the fact that someone like Bull could still get bad dreams was actually very reassuring. She let out a heavy, shuddering sigh, and her shoulders sagged. She tossed a few logs into the embers, before retrieving her cloak from her tent. When she sat down again, she was turned a bit more towards Bull, but still didn't look directly at him.

With nowhere else to look, Morgan glanced down at her left hand, turning her palm upwards. The pale, sickly green light flickered and danced, drawing her focus to the center of the mark, where the light was brightest. The moment she did, she felt like she was falling, and then her stomach lurched. She nearly slapped her palm into her thigh, jerking her head up.

“Are you on watch?” she mumbled.

Bull shook his head. “Nah, Skinner and Stitches are somewhere over there.” He gestured vaguely towards the edge of the camp and, for a moment, a pair of glowing elvhen eyes turned in their direction. Even with dwarves also having excellent night vision, Morgan had to look hard to pick up even a hint of the woman's outline. Skinner was everything a rogue should be.

The elvhen eyes combined with the name helped paint a vague picture of a woman Morgan had seen on the coast and on the road. “Skinner's the cute one with the dark hair and the red scarf, right?” Morgan said without thinking. She was glad for the dark, cheeks coloring.

Bull blinked silently at the dwarf for half a moment, then the corner of his mouth pulled upwards. “I've heard Skinner called a lot of things, but I don't think that 'cute' has ever been one of them.” He was obviously fighting a full on grin, and Morgan's ears began to burn.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Maybe 'scary-pretty' would have been better?” Bull burst out laughing, quickly quieting himself. “What?!” Morgan huffed, indignant but starting to smile. “I've got a thing for badasses, and I saw her fight!”

The qunari was sporting what seemed to be a permanent grin now. “So you like _lady_ badasses, huh?” Despite his teasing tone, something else in his voice made the question an easy, non invasive one, that Morgan didn't have to answer.

She paused a beat, searching his face. Something she saw made her feel safe answering. “Not _just_ lady badasses. People with muscles and battle scars are just…” She sighed. “I mean, they're not _necessary_ but … ugh!” She let out a growl of frustration. “Why are there so many beautiful people at the Maker-fucked end of the world?!”

He chuckled again, and she smiled at him through her blush. Then he waggled his eyebrows—there wasn't much left of the one above the patch—and made her snort. “Scars are hot, huh? How about eye patches?”

“They're certainly not a deal breaker,” she said, giggling nervously. She could see what he was doing now. He was teasing and flirting with her to drag her as far away from whatever bad feelings her dreams had left behind. It showed how smart he was, too.

Most people would have asked about her family, or more about her past, trying to seek out happy memories. But that would have just lead her to other dark feelings. Flirting, though, was perfect. She flustered easily around new people, especially when they were as nice to look at as Bull was. He'd picked that out and used it. Quite effectively, too. Her mind was now full of images that would have made the Randy Dowager blush.

“Good to know,” he said. Instinct roared back to her, and she fully expected him to push, the way most men did.

But he didn't press any further, respecting the newness of their relationship. It didn't matter how cute the new boss was; he didn't want to make her uncomfortable around him. He probably thought about sleeping with everyone he met at some point, to varying degrees. But he didn't know her _nearly_ well enough to offer. And a woman with her proportions probably got all kinds of unwanted and unpleasant attention.

In truth, Morgan didn't mind the flirting. She was smart enough to guess that he was just using it as a tool to help her, and that it wasn't out of actual interest. But positive attention from men _without_ and ulterior motive was just as alien to her as it had been before. She was so used to there being a hidden agenda for everything, that someone just helping to make her feel better felt … strange. Not in a bad way, though.

“Do you flirt this much with _all_ your employers?” she asked, only half joking.

“Only the really pretty ones,” he said reflexively. He saw her flush scarlet and go stiff, even in the low light. “Shit, sorry, Boss. Not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

Alright, maybe the flirting _hadn't_ been just a tool to make her feel better. Her chest tightened and her stomach fluttered. Then she realized something else. Not only was she unused to positive attention from someone not actively trying to bed her, but she was even more unused to men _apologizing_ when they realized that their words or actions might have made a woman uncomfortable, especially from someone who seemed as rough as Bull.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “but it's alright. You did a good job of distracting me.” She met his eyes and smiled with honest gratitude. “Thanks, Bull.”

He watched her, face unreadable for a moment before the relaxed expression was back. “Whatever you say, Boss. But I go too far, don't hesitate to tell my big gray ass to just fuck right off.” She could tell he meant it, too. How did such a big, tough looking man manage to be so oddly sweet?

She came back with her usual sass to deflect the complicated thoughts. “If I did that, who would everyone hide behind the next time we're attacked?” Her green-hazel eyes crinkled when she smiled, and the tension eased out of both of them. They started talking again, and Morgan ended up tell him about Haven, since he and the Chargers were going to be making it their home for the foreseeable future.

Something occurred to her, and she scowled deeply. “Fair warning; the blond human merchant there, Seggrit, is a racist pile of nug-shit. Called an elf a—” She broke off and growled. “The bastard said it right to my face, like it was nothing at all.”

Bull saw her reach over and touch the knuckles on her left hand, the attention having nothing to do with the mark. “You hit him.” It wasn't a question. He kept his smile hidden this time; she probably wouldn't appreciate him being amused at the image of her decking a human man for calling an elf a 'knife-ear'.

Morgan nodded. “I'd just woken up after stabilizing the Breach. It had been three days. Josephine explained it all away as confusion.” Her expression was grim and bitter.

“You don't seem happy about that.”

“Damn fucking right I'm not! Unfortunately he's the only merchant currently willing to do business with the Inquisition. They—Cassandra, Cullen, and Josephine—keep urging me to make more command decisions, and take on more of a leadership role. But then they won't let me toss that waste of skin out on his ass.” She understood that they needed a merchant to deal with directly, but it didn't make it right to let Seggrit go about being as he was.

Bull had pegged Morgan as softhearted the moment they met, so the concern for others wasn't a surprise. What _did_ surprise him was the amount of anger he could see now. She was staring so intently at the flames, that if she'd been a mage, he'd've been worried something else was about to catch fire.

“You're taking it very personally,” he observed gently.

Her nightmare was completely forgotten now, all her frustration pouring into the one subject. “Nobles hunt elves in some cities, and no one does anything! That says nothing of how the Dalish are treated! And Halamsiral is the biggest pile of darkspawn-fucked nug-shit!” Her fingers bit into her palms before she let out a long, heavy breath.

She dragged a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. “Sorry. Dwarves have it pretty easy by comparison, and I know it's not _my_ fight, but… I just get so fucking angry!” She made a strangling motion in the air in front of her, then flopped back onto the ground, staring at the sky. “Thanks, Bull. For... helping. You did, a lot, even if I got all pissy towards the end.”

“Anytime, Boss.” His voice was so warm and pleasant to listen to. She'd always had a thing about voices; something about certain tones, accents, or ways of speaking just... she couldn't really explain it.

She particularly liked listening to Varric. The other dwarf was a true story teller, knowing just where to put the right emphasis, or how to bring even the most absurd situations to vibrant life. And while Cassandra often voiced her disbelief at the stories, Morgan was convinced that the Seeker liked listening too.

Varric's voice brought to mind sitting in front of a crackling fire, steaming mug in hand while the weather did something unpleasant outside. Sera's voice was honey and tart green apples, climbing trees and catching fireflies. Bull's voice was something else all together. It was warmth, calm, and safety, painted over something raw and primal, visceral and alive.

Morgan didn't know how a voice could be all those things at once, but that didn't change the fact that it _was_. It was the kind of voice she could listen to for hours, and Morgan almost felt like she could tell him anything. Instinct and training prevented that. He was a trained spy, and was probably very good and being friendly and getting people to talk to him.

She scowled, shoving down the suspicious thought. Whatever his motives, he had helped her, and she was grateful. Getting back to her feet, she offered another smile, and returned to her tent. It took a while for her to drift off again, but when she did, her dreams were very nearly pleasant.

 

000

 

Any dryness from the night before became a distant memory with the morning rain. A tarp was pulled put up between the covered wagon and a set of poles, so that the cold boar could be handed out. Everyone ate in silence; even those who loved rising early could not be chipper when it was cold _and_ raining.

Cassandra beat Morgan to the tent to redress, so the dwarf pulled up the hood of her cloak and waited. Fortunately, the Seeker was used to armoring up in a hurry, and didn't take long. Cassandra’s stormy mood seemed intensified by the clouds overhead, and Morgan said nothing as they passed. She herself didn't have the energy for conversation yet.

After putting on fresh small clothes, hoes, and leggings, she laced herself into her half-boned stay. Over that went an under tunic, wool shirt, hoes, and breeches, stuffed into knee-high leather boots. She fought on her chain-mail shirt and then her knee-lenth, fleece lined leather coat. She'd gotten used to putting on her armor by herself long ago, so the boiled leather breastplate and pauldrons were no problem.

Her armor was almost entirely plain, and the only real personal touch had gone into her bracers and grieves. Both metal and leather were embossed and tooled, the steel set with intricate images of lily of the valley. They were the first things she'd been able to make for herself in Haven, and such personalization had been frowned upon in the Carta. She was exceptionally proud of them.

Once all her things had been packed, she helped break camp. Once that was done, the Chargers and the Inquisition were on the road again. They weren't as boisterous as before, but were still fairly pleasant company. Morgan walked closer to the group this time, even engaging in a few casual conversations.

And all the while, Bull was at her back, just to the side of her blind spot. She was grateful for that; she'd have felt him there and have been unable to focus on anything else. Cassandra walked next to him, watching him just as much as she did their surroundings. She couldn't have made her distrust more obvious.

While Morgan wanted to roll her eyes at that, she wasn't exactly in a position to judge; she didn't trust Bull either. She _wanted_ to; he was kind and easy going, and his presence made her feel at ease. But being suspicious was second nature to her at this point, and after how helpful he had been last night, she hated it.

But she certainly _liked_ the Iron Bull, and was determined to give him a chance to prove himself. Everyone deserved that chance, and she didn't have the Carta looking over her shoulder any more. Just because she didn't trust him—yet—didn't mean that they couldn't be friends and work together. With that decided, she was able to maintain what remained of her good mood, even as the rain turned the road to mud and they had to navigate deep puddles found by the unfortunate souls picked as forward scouts.

Morgan tried, multiple times, to volunteer for that role. She was, after all, a rogue, and a good one too. But Bull, who had more people he could use as scouts and guards, always seemed to have someone else picked whenever she asked. She realized that he was still doing his job as bodyguard, and doing it in a way that didn't hurt her pride. What little of it she had, anyway.

But a group of their size was next to impossible to hide. The wagons full of supplies made tempting targets to the desperate, no matter how well armed those guarding it were. The first volley came from slightly behind and to Morgan's left. A rock snapped from a sling and cracked the back of her head in the same moment she heard the forward scouts call the warning.

Vision blurred with tears, Morgan strung her bow by feel. She felt Bull's big hand on her shoulder, gentle but insistent as he tried to tuck her between the wagon and himself. The pain made her angry, and she grabbed his wrist, blunt nails digging into to get his attention, yanking with surprising strength.

“Get me up there so that I can shoot back!” she snarled, pointing to the abandoned driver's seat of the wagon. The drivers had abandoned it to keep the brontos from bolting, but the animals seemed to be taking it all in stride. When Bull met her eyes, he found a fierceness there; she wasn't going to let him tuck her away while other people fought to protect her.

He lifted the chubby dwarf as if she weighed nothing, putting her in the wagon's seat. The moment she had footing, she nocked an arrow, found a target, and loosed. It took a man in the thigh, and he went down screaming. Her second shot silenced him and hit her like a punch in the gut. People were so soft an fragile, so easy to take apart. She shoved away her softhearted feelings as she'd done for years. They had no place here.

Sniping from high ground gave her another chance to see how Bull and the Chargers fought. They adapted themselves seamlessly to the terrain, and to the addition of Morgan, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. Moreover, Bull seemed to somehow know _exactly_ where Cassandra was going to be, putting himself at her back and timing his swings.

He wasn't just a berserker swinging his weapon. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head. Every move and step was carefully calculated, accounting for thousands of possibilities. She'd only met one or two people in her life as skilled and experienced as Bull. And he was on her side, fighting with her. Maybe with allies like him, she could actually survive this mess.

The fight didn't last long; the poor bastards never even stood a chance. With the Chargers and the Inquisition fighting together, the battle was over in a matter of minutes. Their attackers hadn't been more than a rag-tag group, and they all looked so thin. While they could easily have been people praying on refugees, they could also just be former farmers, trying to survive while the world went to shit.

Morgan's stomach lurched, and she had to fight to hold onto her food. She caught Solas's attention and made a croaking request that all the bodies be burned. They were near a stream that fed several small lakes in the area, and it wouldn't do to have the bodies poison it. Then she put both wagons between herself and the aftermath.

As she leaned against the wagon, pain starting to edge back in, she was glad for the chill air. It deadened the smell of death, which was actually just the mixed scents of piss and shit and blood. She'd known that already, but smelling it so often was awful. The sharp ache at the back of her head throbbed in time to her elevated pulse, her waning adrenaline making the pain more and more noticeable.

The only reason it wasn't running down the back of her neck was because of the bun her hair was pinned into. She thought longingly of the hot baths she’d had in Haven, and how long it would probably be before she experienced such luxuries again. She unstrung her bow, and leaned it against the wagon beside her.

Her hair was already unpinned and out of its braid when Bull found her. “Hey, you okay, Boss?” When she turned to face him, he was holding a small ceramic jar and a roll of bandages, and looked genuinely concerned.

Morgan could have been in agony and would still have downplayed it. She gave a dismissive wave. “I’m fine; there’s just gonna be a lot of dried blood in my hair.”

Bull was unconvinced. “Stitches and that mage of yours are taking care of one of the guy who took an arrow in the leg.” He held up a hand as her eyes widened. “They’ll be fine, but the Seeker looked like she was going to explode if someone didn’t have a look at you.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that’s just her face.” But Bull just raised a brow at her, unmoved. She threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine, fine.” As he advanced, she turned and gave him her back.

He put one hand lightly on her shoulder as he bent to examine her. Morgan was instantly aware that the width of his hand was only a few inches short of covering her from shoulder to neck completely. A little shiver that had nothing to do with fear or the cool air ran through her. He gently parted the hair around her wound, and swept it over her shoulders.

As his breath puffed lightly against the back of her neck, she became aware of how close he was; close enough that with just a little lean, she’d be resting her back against his chest. When she realized the direction that her thoughts were heading, she stiffened. It was around the same moment that Bull probed the edge of the wound, pulling out a deeply embedded piece of hair. She hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, Boss. Looks like you won’t need sewing up, though.” Tearing off a section of bandage, he rested his hand on her shoulder again while he dabbed at the blood, and then sprinkled the wound with a powder to help the blood clot and scab over. When he opened the jar, the smell of elfroot became strong enough that Morgan sneezed. “This’ll clean it, but it’s gonna sting.”

“Most medicine does,” Morgan said sourly, before waving a hand. “Go on, you wicked man.”

“Wicked? Me?” He sounded deeply hurt. “Boss, that’s cruel.”

Just as she was opening her mouth to retort, Bull pressed a dab of the salve into her wound. It didn’t sting, it fucking _burned_! “Son of a nug-fucked, coarse-livered cock-fuck!” she snarled through clenched teeth.

It took Bull a great deal of self-control to keep from laughing. “How does such filth come from someone so small and innocent looking?” he said as he kept working.

“I way I figure it,” she said through her teeth, “qunari sized emotions in a dwarf body.”

He _had_ to laugh at that, and pulled his hands away from the wound for a moment. “Is _that_ why most of the dwarves I meet are so grouchy?” He continued to gently massage the salve into the wound.

Morgan snorted, the pain becoming easier to ignore. “That, or meeting you just makes them feel _extra_ short.” When he laughed again, Morgan smiled. She’d always liked being able to make people laugh. And Bull had such a nice laugh, joyful and unashamed.

“You’re just full of valuable insight, Boss,” he said sagely.

“If by ‘valuable insight’ you mean random trivia about animals and history, then sure, I am full of it.” Bull was about to make another remark, when familiar footsteps sounded behind him.

“Are you going around playing healer again, Chief?” said Stitches, voice low, and deeply Ferelden.

“You were busy,” Bull sniffed, stepping away from Morgan. She turned to face the new arrival, connecting the man’s dark, copper-brown face with the healer that had been riding with the wounded from the Storm Coast.

“Are you tell me this man has no medical training?!” Morgan gasped, putting a hand to her breast in an imitation of a scandalized noble.

Stitches mouth twitched. “Let’s have a look at you, Your Worship.”

Bull got a closer look at her flinch this time. It wasn’t just that she didn’t like titles; it _hurt_. It was the instinctive flinch learned when unpleasant things were imminent, and a bit of pity tugged at his chest. Then her face was normal, and she was waving a dismissive hand. “Please, just call me ‘Boss’ or ‘Ma’am’,” she said.

“As you say, Ma’am. Turn around, please.” She did as she asked, and his brisk fingers pulled apart her hair and examined the wound. He was less gentle than Bull had been, probing the edges a bit before stepping back, and glowering up at the sky. “I’d tell you to keep it dry, but that’s like telling the Chief not to flirt with every passing pretty face.”

Giggling, Morgan pulled her hair into a loose braid and pinned it gently at the base of her neck. “I’m pretty sure I heard him trying to flirt with Cassandra earlier.”

Stitches looked over at Bull. “The Seeker? She’d eat you alive, ser.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Morgan said. She felt a brief moment of panic; keeping personal details _personal_ had been an early lesson. But there was no negative reaction.

Bull made a show of winking at her, and a smile pulled at the corners of Stitches’ mouth. “Not gonna argue with you there, Boss,” he agreed.

With only the one injury, they were on the road again quickly. After fretting about Morgan’s injury, Cassandra ordered Bull not to let the Herald out of his sight. He saw her flinch again, but she just sighed. When she caught him looking, she shrugged. “I’m not going to tell her to stop. I feel like she needs to believe in what I am,” she explained. “I can deal with it.”

How did someone so softhearted end up working in the Carta? She seemed to be going out of her way for her companions, even if it caused her pain. Bull filed the information away for later, and did as Cassandra had told him. It took a while, but Morgan got used to his presence at her elbow.

 

000

 

The next few days were much the same. A few more groups tried for the wagons. One seemed to have a better grasp of strategy, and fled once they realized they were outmatched. So many of them looked wild and desperate, and Morgan made sure that all of them were cremated, and prayers said over their bodies. One didn’t always have a choice when one was trying to survive.

The rain became less frequent, and then stopped all together. They traded mud for frost as they got closer to the Hinterlands. But the cold was at least a dry one, and they had fires every night. The lack of rain made it easier for Morgan to crochet again as well. She kept yarn and needle in one of her larger belt pouches, easy to tuck away if she needed to reach for her bow instead. Her hat was finished before they reached the Crossroads.

 

 

000

 

The Chargers split off for Haven once they reached the Crossroads. Varric went with them, carrying a letter from Morgan, with instructions for Josephine to go about getting horn balm sent to Haven. Morgan had hoped to go with them, even though it would have been another week of even colder travel. But there was so much that needed to be done in the Hinterlands.

What little food the refugees had brought with them when they had fled had run out, and what little rations the army could scrounge up weren’t enough. And with demons and bandits running all over the countryside, regular civilians couldn’t go hunting. And it wasn’t like soldiers could be spared.

Morgan was an excellent hunter, and had seen evidence of plenty of wild sheep in the hills. There had also been reports of apostates stashing supplies through the Hinterlands. With it getting colder every night, those supplies—hopefully blankets and the like—could easily save lives. There was no way Morgan could go back to Haven so soon when she was in the best position to help these people.

Whether they went hunting for sheep or supplies, there were Fade Rifts to deal with first. They replenished their potions and rations before setting out, the tingling in the mark helping Morgan lead the way. She could always feel where the Rifts were when she was close enough. She would feel a gentle pull from the mark in the right direction, and it hadn’t been wrong yet.

The energy from the Rifts also reacted to the lyrium underground. Morgan had become much more aware of the soft song since the mark on her hand appeared. She’d never been completely stone-blind, but this was something else entirely. She could even sense different ore deposits if the lyrium was close enough.

They were able to mark several clusters of iron ore and good building stone on the map, and also scouted the best areas for gathering elfroot and embrum. But Morgan also told everyone to fill a pouch with the herbs, intending to give them to the few people with medical knowledge at the Crossroads. With the green smell of fresh cut plants still clinging to their fingers and gloves, they crested a hill and found the first Rift.

The Mark flared brightly, even through Morgan’s glove, and demons poured from the tear. She and Solas stayed on the crest of the hill, and he threw barriers up around Bull and Cassandra as they charged into the fray. Morgan’s first targets were the wraiths. Solas had tried to explain, but she still didn’t understand how her arrows did any sort of damage to the barely-corporeal beings.

Two long shots in quick succession dispatched both creatures, leaving three lesser shades that were quickly destroyed by the warriors and the mage. The second wave consisted of three wraiths and three lessor terrors. Morgan spat curses; she _hated_ terrors. Not because they frightened her, but because they _teleported_.

One vanished and then appeared behind them, swiping a claw at their backs. Morgan felt a tug on the straps of her pack, and suddenly she was in the air, pulled close enough to smell the thing's foul breath as it screamed loud enough to make her ears ring. Dropping her bow, she pulled a dagger from her belt and stabbed the thing in the face. Black blood sprayed and the demon tossed her away, the dagger wrenched from her grasp. She braced herself for the fall.

Instead, she fell solidly into Bull’s arms, and he put her instantly on her feet. He pulled two daggers from his own belt and pressed them into her hands. She instantly adjusted to the weight and balance, and spat more curses at the terror that now stood over her bow.

She wasn’t anywhere near as good with daggers as she was with a bow. The Carta had taught her how, of course, because there wasn’t always time to string a bow when shit went south. She couldn’t fight _demons_ like this!

Fear sang in her veins, panic rising in her chest, telling her to run. But she saw her companions, people she was beginning to see as friends, putting themselves in a line between her and the demons. Morgan wouldn’t abandon them. Trusting them to keep her safe, she turned, thrusting her left hand towards the rift.

Light poured in glowing ribbons around the dagger’s handle, twisting into a point that stabbed into the rift with a force that made her arm ache. She could feel the energy humming through her, building in her hand and _pushing_. It hurt, Maker it fucking hurt! It felt like her bones were on fire. Then energy burst outward, the connection broken and Morgan’s hand thrust back. A wave crashed out from the flaring Rift, striking the demons and driving them to their knees.

The wraith and one of the injured terrors were swept away into nothing as they died. Morgan spun and moved forward. She darted around Bull to slash at another terror’s side. Bull made to change his next swing, but she was already out of the way, rolling to his other side.

Without a word, they began a pattern, both reading the other’s moves. Every time Bull pulled back his ax to ready another swing, she would dart in and cut with her daggers. When the terror blocked one of them, the other would move in and strike. They hit again and again, until they were both soaked in blood and the demon went down.

There was a moment when Morgan looked at him, her face painted with pleased surprise, joy in her victory. He smiled at her, and then they were fighting the last demon, Morgan reading the muscles in Bull’s shoulders and back to know when he would swing. Cassandra took its back and Solas raised fresh barriers around them all.

 

000

 

Morgan dropped to her knees, chest heaving and lungs burning. The demon blood that had splattered her throughout the battle was drying, becoming sticky and tight on her skin. It had somehow gotten in her mouth, and the taste like spoiled meat wouldn’t leave her no matter how much water she gargled and spat. She muttered a string of violent curses as she crawled over to her bow.

When she found it unbroken, she heaved a sigh of relief and sat down hard, stretching her legs out in front of her. She cleaned Bull’s daggers on the grass and gave them back, taking her own from him in exchange. “Nug-shit eating arse-biscuts!” she muttered, sheathing her dagger with more force than was necessary. “I want a fucking bath.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Bull muttered, staring down at his blood-splattered chest and stomach with obvious disgust.

“Not my fault you run around half naked,” Morgan sniffed.

Somehow, he was still able to joke, throwing a lopsided grin in both her and Cassandra’s direction. “Now if I did that, what would you have to distract you from the constant boredom?”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “The landscape is much more appealing.” Morgan could practically _hear_ the Seeker’s eyes rolling.

Bull winced, but his grin didn’t fade. “Ouch!” He shook his head and started cleaning the gore off his axe.

Solas, who was infuriatingly clean, came to stand beside them, leaning on his staff. The lack of blood reminded Morgan again why she preferred long range weapons. “I believe I noticed a small spring a short ways back.” His tone was neutral, but they all knew that everyone but him probably stank to high heaven.

Morgan heaved a heavy sigh; as much as she wanted to be clean, bathing would have to wait. “We should hunt up some of those sheep first,” she said, not caring that her tone sounded like a petulant child. “If we take some back to the Crossroads, we might be able to wash with _hot_ water.”

“There are hot springs all over Par Vollen,” Bull said, a nostalgic and longing look crossing his face. “Water’s heated by underground magma flows.”

“Lucky bastard,” Morgan muttered, glaring. “Sorry you have to heat buckets on the stove with us heathens.”

“Yeah, it’s a real burden.” He was grinning, and Cassandra actually snorted. “But a cold bath can be good for you; great for the skin.”

“I’ll take the occasional—” She broke off, rising slowly to her feet and using the hand signal for ‘quiet’ that Cassandra had taught her. Everyone started reaching for their weapons, expecting enemies. But then they saw Morgan sighting in a sheep. It was a ways off, just peeking out of the edge of the trees, as if to see if the demons were gone.

Morgan heard the crackle of frost from Solas’s direction, and knew he was reading an ice trap in case she missed. She appreciated him being ready, but she wasn’t going to miss. Most people thought you had to take your time aiming. But with a big bow like Morgan’s, that time would just make your arm tired. She raised her bow, sighted down the arrow, and loosed.

She didn’t miss. It took the sheep through the eye, and it went down with no more than a few brief twitches. Pride flushed her cheeks, and she grinned. It had been an excellent shot, more than a hundred yards, and when Cassandra said as much, Morgan blushed so much her ears got warm.

“We should string the carcass up to retrieve later,” Solas said, as they all started in the direction of the kill. “We can continue hunting and bring them all back at once.” It was a good idea, and quickly agreed upon. And so began a day of hunting, skinning, gutting, and general messiness.

Solas proved himself exceptionally skilled at dressing game, so he and Bull—also more than proficient—took care of what Morgan brought down, Cassandra keeping eyes and ears out for enemies. By the end of the day, even Solas smelled awful. The stink of demon gore, combined with animal musk and the smell of sheep innards was most unpleasant, and Morgan would have given just about anything for a bucked of hot water and soap.

They made a litter with rope and tree branches, dragging most of the kills back that way. Bull made an awful beast of burden joke, and hoisted _three_ of the bodies onto his shoulder and under an arm. He was going to smell the worst of all.

When they returned, they were greeted with cheers and tears of joy. If Morgan hadn’t been practically dead on her feet, the gratitude would have made her uncomfortable. When they asked how they could repay the Inquisition, they all answered in unison.

“A hot bath.”

Happy to oblige, and offering to launder everyone’s clothes and armor, the people found an old copper tub and started a fire in the hearth in one of the empty houses. Cassandra, Bull, and Solas decided that since Morgan had brought down the sheep, that she would get to wash first, and she wasn’t about to object.

While they waited, an old woman stopped in front of Bull, eyes narrowed. Morgan bristled, expecting nastiness. Instead, the old woman, who was barely taller than Bull’s waist, tossed a wet rag at him.

“Ought to be ashamed,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Walking around so filthy around two such fine ladies.” She eyed Solas, but he wasn’t in as bad of shape as the qunari. The woman waved a hand at Bull. “Go on, get that filth off your face.” Morgan wanted to object to being called a ‘fine lady’.

Morgan couldn’t tell if Bull was truly embarrassed, or if he was just playing along. But he ducked his head sheepishly, and did as the only woman told him, eventually, stooping so she could get at his face when his own cleaning proved unsatisfactory. Even Solas grinned a little at that.

When the first bath was ready, Morgan went gladly. She undressed behind an old wooden screen, and a young girl took her dirty things for cleaning. Taking her soap, comb, and wash rags, Morgan put them on the stool beside the steaming tub. She shivered in the cold air, then yelped when she stepped into the hot water.

But the heat was glorious on her tired muscles, and she adjusted quickly. Before the water became too saturated with dirt, she used the provided wooden cup to dump water over her head. It took a while to work the soap through her hair, and Morgan was beginning to consider cutting it. Once her hair was properly soaped, she was able to relax for a few moments and just _soak_.

But she didn’t want the water to get cold, and there was no heating rune on this tub like there was on the one in Haven. She scrubbed until her skin was clear and pink, and then took special care rinsing out her hair around the head wound. It was healing nicely, but she didn’t want to soften the scab and tear it off.

There was a moment of panic when she was finished, and realized that she hadn’t checked for a towel. Then she saw that one was hanging on a hook by the fireplace. The cloth was worn and threadbare in a few spots, but the fire had warmed it nicely. It was big enough to wrap quite well in too; there were benefits to being smaller than the average human.

Once she was dry, she dressed in her spare clothes. She had given her stay over to be washed, so she used her wrap around corset, cinching it tightly under her bust. It wasn’t as much support as the stay, but it worked just fine. Over that went a faded lavender tunic, patched at the elbows. They hadn’t taken her boots, so she used a rag and the cooling bathwater to scrub most of the grime away.

Stuffing her feet into her boots, she wrapped in a shawl from her pack and went outside. She found a seat on a bench in the sun, and pulled out her socks. There were holes worn in most of them, and she finally had time to work. Her companions slowly joined her after their own baths, all in their spare clothes. Bull’s trousers were the same, except they were now striped in maroon and orange.

It was the first time Morgan had seen Cassandra out of armor for any extended period of time. Now she was wearing a plain cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up as she cleaned he own armor. It was hard not to stare. The sun showed blue undertones in the Seeker’s dark hair, and her golden-olive skin practically gleamed.

Iron Bull laid out a blanket near the bench and stretched out in the sun like a giant cat, hands folded across his stomach. Solas put his back against a tree and closed his eyes, likely to visit the Fade. Even as relaxed as they were, each of them had their weapons within easy reach.

Thankfully, the only trouble—if one could call it that—was a couple of angry looking young men, talking quietly to themselves and occasionally pointing at the elvhen apostate. Morgan bristled. She might not have been especially close to Solas, but still counted him as a friend. Focusing on her mark until she felt it crackle with energy, she casually stretched her arms over her head, making sure that the men saw it.

They both paled instantly, and when her eyes caught theirs, they both turned and hurried off. While glad that she had scared them off, Morgan also felt intensely uncomfortable. Other people had seen the Mark too, and were now speaking in hushed tones, throwing glances in the party’s direction.

Anxiety became a tight knot in her chest, pulse thrumming. She stared hard at the socks in her hands, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, rather than the eyes on her back. It was difficult, and she had to go back and fix her stitches twice. But she got them done, folding them back into her pack.

Coin purse in hand, she wandered over to the weapons merchant. She liked to fletch her own arrows, but that wasn’t exactly feasible on the road. She bought a quiver full, and headed back with them under her arm. When she returned, she found that bowls of mutton stew had been provided, full of leeks and potatoes and wild carrots.

There weren’t as many spices as the Chargers’ stew, but Morgan still gave Bull a huge smile when he handed her her own bowl, as well as a slice of crusty brown bread. They all ate it silence. A hot meal after a long day was heaven, as far as Morgan was concerned, especially considering the bath.

But the comfort of that heaven soon came under attack. People started to come by to give the Herald of Andraste their personal thanks. They clasped and kissed her hands—not the one with the mark, though—and some smiled and wept. The children were braver than their parents, and asked to see the mark.

Despite her own discomfort, Morgan was happy to indulge their curiosity, watching their eyes light with wonder as they looked. They asked about demons, and she told them about how she and her party had vanquished a group just that day. She made a tale of it, showing a bit of storytelling talent herself.

When the children asked about apostates, Bull saw her shoulders go stiff. Morgan knew that they were just repeating what their parents had said, but hearing such ignorant assumptions about mages come from children was painful. While she normally shied away from any sort of confrontation she could avoid, she squared her shoulders and told them all about Solas.

He was the elven apostate that had kept her alive and showed her how to use the mark. He had protected her and made sure that she had the strength to _fight_ the demons. He was an honorable man, and no one to be feared. Solas said nothing, and indeed, didn’t even seem to be paying attention. But Bull saw him smile.

The children were eventually called back by their parents, and Morgan’s shoulders sagged. The knot in her chest was getting worse, making it hard to breathe. Her body reacted as if there were enemies bearing down on her, even though she knew that she was perfectly safe. Adrenaline flooded her system, blowing her unpleasant feelings to new heights. She had no control, and was headed straight for full blown panic.

_You know what would help._

The thought was an old one, and she would have started crying if she’d been alone. Her depression had been much, _much_ worse in the past, and old coping mechanisms were resurfacing. She got stiffly too her feet and started walking. She needed to be alone. Everything was too loud, too close, too bright.

She ducked behind a ruined stone wall, into the shade and out of sight. She fell to her knees, nails digging into her palms. Trying to keep her breathing under control, she rolled up the sleeve of her tunic. Rows of horizontal scars marked her wrist, and the other was much the same. Shame swelled to mix with the panic, and tears burned her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to hurt herself in a long, _long_ time. But now the urge came surging back, as if it had never been gone.

The dagger in her boot felt suddenly heavy, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Everything was closing in, everyone was depending on her, looking to her to fix everything. How could she help them when she was still so broken?

_Cutting will help._

Maker, she wanted to. She wanted to draw the blade over her wrist and feel the sharp, grounding sting. But she’d been down that road before, and it only ever lead to more darkness. Instead her hand snapped up to the back of her head, pressing at the scab. Pain flared, and some of her tension eased.

“I’m stronger,” she whispered to herself. “I’m stronger than that.” She would keep telling the lie until it became truth. She wiped hurriedly at her eyes and got back up, dusting off the knees of her breeches.

When her breathing was back under control, she rejoined the others, giving a meek apology for getting so overwhelmed. They accepted her explanation easily, and she was still too tightly wound to notice the look Bull gave her. But he didn’t say anything, just gave her a nod and a smile.

A few hours later, their things were returned, laundered and dried. They were informed that the same empty house they had used for bathing would also be their sleeping quarters. They all carried their armor and packs back to the building, and found that three cots had been set out.

They obviously hadn’t been able to find something of Bull’s size, so two straw-stuffed mattresses had been laid on the floor. If they had just given him a bed of straw to sleep in, Morgan would have started setting things on fire. She’d heard more than enough ‘oxman’ and ‘knife-ear’ comments that day, and if she hadn’t been so fucking tired, she probably would have started fights over it. Her hatred of confrontation went out the window when her friends or people she knew personally were insulted.

They all laid out their bed rolls on the cots, and, in Bull’s case, the mattresses. Morgan was glad that there were actual _pillows_ provided. It was interesting what one took for granted when one wasn’t running all over the countryside. The wood had been piled high, and more logs lay within reach of the party, but out of reach of any popping sparks.

A curtain hung in the middle of the room, made of a large sheet tacked to the rafters. Morgan and Cassandra took one side, and Bull and Solas took the other. The door didn’t have a lock, and Cassandra insisted on a watch even though they were in what was considered safe territory. Solas, claiming to be refreshed from his nap earlier in the day, took first watch.

Morgan’s scab itched something awful, but she forced herself to ignore it, climbing under her blanket and curling into a ball. She was too exhausted for even her anxiety to keep her awake, and was fast asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. She drifted off to the crackle of the fire and the sweet smell of hay.

 


	3. In the Elements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan makes a friend. Please enjoy, and tell me what you think!

 

In the Elements:

 

 The next morning was bitterly cold, an actual film of ice having formed on the basin of water Morgan used to clean her teeth and wash her face.  Solas heated some water for tea that smelled of flowers but tasted bitter.  She drank it anyway, glad for the warmth.  Looking at Bull that morning, Morgan felt the growing urge to make the man a sweater.  But that would probably involve buying out every yarn merchant within a hundred miles. 

At the very least a cowl.  While she was considering how to make a cowl that would fasten around his neck, instead of going over his head, he dug something out of his pack.  What he pulled out stopped her thoughts.  It was a big, black, fur-lined vest, with the fasteners made of dawnstone. 

Seeing the refugees so cold at the Crossroads made Morgan doubly determined to find the supply caches.  Solas offered to spell their cloaks for warmth, but Bull and Cassandra outright refused.  The magic didn’t effect Morgan much, but it was another barrier against the cold, so she didn’t mind.  At the very least, it took the bite out of the chill.  

They left before dawn, the sun obnoxiously bright and cheerful as it rose, and doing piss against the cold.  Morgan’s only solace was how ridiculous Bull’s vest was.  While she didn’t recognize the pelt, whatever animal the garment had been made from had to have been outrageously fluffy.  Fur stuck out around the collar, arms, and around the hem.  There was a hole at the back for the strap that held up his axe.  The bits at the collar were long enough to tickle his jaw.  She actually felt sorry for him; Qunari lived far to the North, where winter was more like a warm spring.  She was also a bit envious.

The first cache was easy to find; at least for Morgan.  She initially thought that it was a surface lyrium vein that led her to the cave.  But in an off-shooting tunnel, they discovered a dead dwarf and red lyrium like Varric had pointed out at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  She could feel it in her head, and her skin crawled the entire time they were marking the location on the map. 

The feeling stayed with her for nearly an hour after they left the cave behind, and she made a note to ask Varric about how one went about destroying the stuff.  Regular lyrium was tricky enough to deal with; she hated to think what quirks the red stuff might have.

After a while, Morgan noticed that Solas was watching Iron Bull.  He was quite for a long time before speaking.  “Iron Bull.  I understand that among your people,  you are… what is the term?”

 “Ben-Hassrath.  Secret police.”  He shrugged his big shoulders.  “Spies, basically.”

 “You spied upon your own people.”  It didn’t take a spy to hear the disdain dripping from his words, and anxiety started creeping into Morgan’s chest again.  Lovely.

 Bull was unfazed.  “Is that so different from Orlais or Ferelden?  They have all kinds of people policing them.”

 “What they say and do, yes,” Solas retorted.  “Not what they _think_.”  Morgan glanced over at Cassandra.  The older woman seemed to feel as awkward as Morgan did.

 Iron Bull’s voice was less casual now, harder.  “What you think _is_ what you say and do.”

 “No,” Solas snapped, and Morgan flinched.  “Even the lowliest peasant may find freedom in the safety of her thoughts.  You take even that.”

 “It’s easier for a lot of people,” Bull said, finally looking over at Solas.  “To know your place and what’s expected of you.  Plenty of people find solace and security in that.”

The apostate said nothing, and silence fell.  Morgan would never tolerate any sort of limit to personal freedoms, but she could understand why the Qun might appeal to people.  They didn’t have to flounder, searching for their place in the world.  The Qun answered all those questions for them.  Morgan would have no problem with the Qun whatsoever if they didn’t make it so fucking hard to leave.

The tension was palpable now, and without Varric to make a snide remark to break it, it continued.  After nearly an hour, Morgan couldn’t take it anymore.  “Bull, how to qunari put on shirts?”  It had been the first thing that came to her, and her face reddened as she felt everyone look over at her.

Bull just shrugged, as easygoing as ever.  “We don’t usually,” he said.  “It’s pretty hot where I’m from.  But I _can_ get into anything with a loose collar.  I just have to ease one horn through and angle it up.  There’s actually a term for being caught unprepared that roughly translates too, ‘running around with clothes stuck on your horns’."

Morgan nearly choked.  “Really?  That’s… colorful.”  She couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Bull in battle with a shirt hanging from one of his horns.  “The Qun should invest in buttons.”

 “Ahh,” he waved a dismissive hand, “it’s easier to just run around half naked.”

 A thought occurred to her, and it tumbled out of her mouth without any thought.  “Do qunari women; people that have breasts, have corsets?  Or stays? 

“Sort of?”  Bull looked like he was trying to find the words.  “They’re sort of like breastbands, but with shoulder straps, and they hook instead of lace.  The only boning is this curved bit under each breast.  There’s not really a word for it in Common.”

“They should export those,” she said, more than a little envious.  “Or is the secret to qunari undergarments as closely guarded as the recipe to gatlok?”

Bull gave her a very serious look, but his eye gave away the mirth.  “Even more so.  We can’t have you heathens knowing how qunari keep their breasts looking so good.”

 Morgan laughed, and shook her head.  The silence that followed was a bit more comfortable.  Solas had drifted to the back, his foul mood nearly palpable.  Morgan ignored him.  “Sorry Solas is being an ass,” she muttered.

 “Don’t apologize.  You agree with him, don’t you?”

There was no point in lying, and her hands fidgeted with the edge of her leather breastplate.  “Well, yeah, I do.  But I can understand your side, too.  I mean, I will fight to the death for someone’s right to choose their life, but not having to worry about the future, about how you’ll make a living…  I can understand the appeal of that.”

 He actually looked surprised.  “Really?  Not a lot of people do.”

 “I don’t really know enough to form a professional opinion, either,” she added.

 “That doesn’t stop most people.”

  “Oh, I still have opinions,” she assured him, “I just know I can’t offer anything.  It’d be like a tailor trying to tell a smith how a hammer is supposed to work.”  He laughed, and she felt a surge of confidence.  “I can’t stand the way mages are treated under the Qun, though.”  She fully expected him to launch into an explanation of why it was necessary, and was already preparing to distance herself from him.

  Instead, his face fell, and he looked away.  “Yeah…  It’s pretty shitty.  Kids grow up thinking they’re going to be a warrior, or a baker, and then…”  He sighed heavily, and Morgan felt a wave of relief wash through her. 

She looked up, and realized that Cassandra had moved ahead to take point, and Solas was still bringing up the rear.  She glanced between them, and then back to Bull before lowering her head.  “They want me to approach the Mage Rebellion or the Templars for help with the Breach,” she said quietly.

Bull winced.  “Well that’s not gonna be fun.  Shitty either way.”  Something in her expression caught his eye, and he looked closer.  “You’ve already made a decision, haven’t you?”  She jumped, and looked over at him.  “Ben-Hassrath, remember?  I know how to read people.”  He kept his voice quite the entire time, face neutral.

  As disconcerting as it was, Bull was right.  “The Mage Rebellion started for a good reason. Shitty timing, but a good reason.  And after the circles fell, the Rebellion is full of children—some who haven’t even had a Harrowing—and the elderly.  Most of them have spent their entire lives in the circle, and were probably never taught how to defend themselves.  We can’t leave them out there, at the mercy of the rogue Templars, who’d sooner kill them than help.”

Bull kept his smile to himself.  Once again, it came down to her wanting to help people.  She certainly was consistent in that.  While the idea of bringing in a bunch of inexperienced mages didn’t exactly _appeal_ to him, he had to admit she was right.  Those mages _were_ vulnerable out there.  She was, unfortunately, right about the Templars, too.

 “You haven’t told anyone about your decision, either,” he observed.  She looked ashamed, and ducked her head.

 “I can tell that almost everyone thinks we should get the Templars, and if I _did_ bring the mages, I’d have to work to make sure they were treated properly, like people.  They’re treating the mages like rabid dogs, not even giving them a chance.  I know that the Chantry screws the Templars pretty badly too, but…”  She shrugged helplessly.

 Bull’s voice hardened, but remained quiet.  “When you tell them, don’t waver.  Looking them in the eye.  Don’t _ask_. _Tell_ them what they’re _going_ to do, not what you _want_ to do.  If you tell them, they’ll listen.”

 Morgan looked at Bull for a long time before speaking.  “Why do you keep helping me?  I’m not a good leader, but you’ve done nothing but advise and reassure me.  Why?”

 “Because you’re not running away from the responsibility.  My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented.  We pick people willing to make the hard decisions, and live with the consequences.”

 She couldn’t hold his gaze.  “I’ll be this Herald for people, I’ll do everything I can to seal rifts and the Breach.  But being a leader?  A _real_ political and military leader?  I don’t know if I can…”

 Bull snorted and shook his head.  “You already _are_ a leader, Boss.  You’re new and scared, but you’re still leading.”

 “Keep that ‘scared’ part between us, huh?” she said with a weak smile.

 “Hey, I’d be a pretty shitty spy if I couldn’t keep secrets, Boss.”  He gave her that same easy smile, and she felt color rising to her cheeks.  Attractive women were easier.  Bull was…  Well, she hardly _knew_ Bull.  But he was easy to talk to and didn’t make her uncomfortable by using any fancy titles.  And she still wasn’t used to positive attention from men.

 It would take a great deal of getting used to.

They closed two more Fade Rifts before they lost the light, and made camp in an old tower.  One side of it was torn away, but the floor of the second floor remained, providing them with shelter.  It was on the tight side, but there was room for all of them to lay their bedrolls around a small fire. 

The first thing Morgan did was unpin her hair, pulling out her comb and working through the tangles. When that was done, she reapplied some of the salve that Stitches had given her, and uttered her usual string of colorful curses.  It didn’t burn as much now, but she hated the way it made her hair feel.  But it was a personal rule of hers not to argue with healers, even if said healer was probably miles away by now. 

Now that her hat was done—it had kept her ears warm all day—she was trying to decide on what to make next. With as cold and runny as her nose had been, she was leaning towards a cowl.  A scarf would take too long, anyways.  Bull could probably use a scarf, though.  She was instantly imagining him in a big fluffy one, sipping cocoa by a fire, and grinned.

 She glanced at Cassandra, eyes falling to the Seeker’s helmet. Her first thought was to try to make some sort of skull cap liner for it, to make it warmer and more comfortable.  But the metal would probably just slide around on top of the yarn, and that wasn’t any good.  Maybe some padded leather?  She made a face.

 Socks would have been perfect. Everyone but Solas needed them, but she didn’t know how.  Grumbling to herself, she started on her cowl.  She _wanted_ to do nice things for the people helping her.  She could have forged Cassandra or Bull weapons, but swords and broadaxes took time she’d never have in Haven.  She could crochet as she walked, so it was the best she could manage.  She made a mental note to ask Josephine about patterns when they returned to Haven.

 She didn’t get far on the cowl before the day caught up with her. The hand with the Mark was aching, and her eyelids were starting to droop.  She put away her yarn, put her hair in a loose braid, and then crawled under her blanket.  As tired as she was she didn’t fall asleep right away.

 Bull’s back was too her, his shape perfectly outlined by the fire. There was room enough for him to lay a bedroll beside hers, but he hadn’t unpacked it yet.  She felt like she could hide from anything behind him, and he’d probably come out without a scratch.  She was finally drifting when he laid out his bed roll.  Her eyes opened and met his.

 “You need more room, Boss?”

 “Mm-mm, yer fine,” she mumbled, rolling over onto her other side and curling into a ball to make as much room as she could. He needed more room than any of them after all.  It was a tight space, but the bodies pressed close just meant that it would be warmer.  She was finally able to drift off.

 

000

The next morning was made more bearable by Solas warming the ground beneath them with magic.  When Bull grumbled, Morgan told him he could go build his own fire outside the tower.  He grumbled some more, but didn’t complain any further, helping to stoke the campfire back to life.  Morgan went for water from the spring, her hat pulled down over her ears.

The fire was going perfectly the time she got back, and she filled a small pot with water to boil.  They had all the ingredients for porridge tied up in cloth pouches, mixed with chopped nuts and dried fruit.  Morgan would have given her right arm for cream and honey, and nearly cried when Solas produced a chunk of honeycomb.

 It wasn’t quite enough for all of them, especially Bull, who probably required more than twice as much food as the average warrior to keep his energy up.  But he’d packed plenty of rations for himself, and they all supplemented the meal with some cured ham.

 They were just starting to clean up and break camp, when Bull made a noise of surprise.  Morgan’s head snapped up, had already reaching for her bow.  But it wasn’t an enemy; it was a huge, dirty, black and white dog, and his big brown eyes lifted to Morgan as she looked at him, tail starting to wag slowly.

 He was a big boy, with obvious mabari blood.  Not a pure blood, though; mabari didn’t really have tails.  Thick shoulders and a strong jaw showed the potential for strength, but his ribs stuck out far too much.  Morgan had loved dogs since she was very small, and was as good as any kennel master at reading canine body language.

Cassandra was much more wary, trying to inch forward.  Skinny as he was, the dog could easily have taken Morgan’s throat, if he’d wanted.  Morgan saw the dog snap over to look at Cassandra, and Morgan held up a hand.  “It’s fine,” she said, voice easy and kind.  “He won’t hurt me.  Will you?”  She’d produced a bit of ham, and now tossed it to the dog.

 He leaped on the morsel, barely chewing before he scarfed it down, and looked back up hopefully, licking his lips.  Morgan smiled.  “Yes, you’re such a good boy.  You’re just hungry, aren’t you?”  The tail wagged faster.  She opened one of her own rations, pulling out some of the druffalo jerky that she’d brought from Haven.  “C’mon.” 

  She held out a piece of the meat, flat on the open palm of her hand.  Cassandra tried to object, but Morgan just held up her other hand again, ordering silence.  Cautiously, but tail still wagging, the dog approached.  He sniffed her hand for a few moments before taking the meat delicately, which was surprising considering how quickly he ate it.

 Then he jumped forward, and panic snapped in everyone.  But it all dissolved into Morgan’s laughter as she nearly fell backwards under the onslaught of kisses.  The dog made circles in front of her, wagging his tail as she pet him, leaning against her and panting with joy.

“Oh, you’re so sweet!” Morgan praised.  “Here, have as much as you like.”  She offered him the rest of her jerky and he laid down, rump still in her lap, to eat it.  Scratching beside his long, whip-like tail, she looked over at Cassandra.  “He was somebody’s pet.  He was just hungry.”

 Cassandra looked at the Herald like a disapproving mother looking at a naughty child.  “We cannot take him with us; we don’t have anything to feed him.”

 Morgan’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say a word.  She extricated herself from the heavy behind of the mabari-mutt, and grabbed her bow.  Slinging her quiver over her back, she took the strung weapon with her as she stalked from the camp, vanishing into the trees.  While she was gone, the dog didn’t move, glancing curiously at the other party members.

 Bull was still sitting, and offered his hand.  The dog got up, and trotted over.  When he found no food in the qunari’s hand, he decided to lick it instead, making the Bull’s face crack into a grin.  He gave the animal’s big head a few scratches, and soon found his own lap invaded by the—likely well over a hundred pounds—big animal, tail thumping the ground.

  The Herald returned quickly, an already skinned and gutted rabbit in one hand.  Seeing the dog in Bull’s lap made her smile.  Seeing the woman with the food returning, the dog sprang back over, dropping his rump to the ground and raising a paw, staring intently at the rabbit.  Morgan began cutting chunks of it and tossing it to him.  He caught every bite mid-air. 

 Turning to Cassandra, Morgan made her case.  “Look, we already have a kennel master back at Haven, and he’s caring for a few strays, but this dog is part _m_ _abari_.  They’re so smart, and one as friendly as this deserves a good home.  I’ll take care of all his meals, and keep him in line.  And I’d never be able to look the Commander in the eye again if I left as fine a dog as this to fend for himself in demon infested hills…”

 “If he has any war dog training, he’d be useful in a fight,” Bull pointed out.  Cassandra shot him a look, before she returned her attention to Morgan and the dog.

 “The moment he becomes a hindrance, he’s gone,” Cassandra said.

 Morgan wanted to argue, but shut her mouth.  She'd take what she could get.  She helped finish packing up, letting the dog gnaw on the rabbit carcass.  When they set out, he fell into step beside her, and she realized just how big he really was.  If he’d tried walking under her legs, he would have taken her off her feet.

The long legs, torso, and jowls, as well as the way his ears flopped forward, made her think of the big danes used to hunt boar by nobles.  The mabari was unmistakable, but there was more to him than just that.  His ears were nicked with scars and scabs, and the loose skin around his neck showed evidence of recent fights.  His back was all the way up past her waist, and she could easily rest her hand on his back as they walked.

 The weight of what she’d taken on hit Morgan gradually.  She’d taken another life into her hands, and probably put this dog’s life in danger.  She fought demons and bandits and mages nearly every day.  A dog deserved a happy life.  Anxiety tightened her chest, mind filling with worry. 

 It turned out that she needn’t have bothered.

 They came upon the mages around noon, the sun shining brightly through the trees. Morgan stopped, feeling the dog do the same beside her.  A quick glance showed his ears pricked at attention, staring intently.  The mages were headed their way, and it would only be a matter of moments before they noticed the Inquisition party.

 At a signal from Cassandra, Morgan dropped into Stealth, and moved around in a wide arc to flank. To her surprise, the dog crept after her, silent as anything, following her by scent alone.  Worry still pounded in her mind, and she wished fervently that she was a mage, so that she could cast an illusion around the animal and keep him hidden.

 The mercenary took Morgan by surprise, leaping from the shadows with curved daggers in hand. She cursed, striking them in the face with the end of her bow, leaping back and fumbling for an arrow.  But they came with her, slashing wildly.  Her bow took too heavy cuts before she was on her back, the taller opponent following her and crashing into her chest.

 Her vision blurred as they struck at her with the pommel, trying to stop her thrashing. Then she heard screaming, and realized that it wasn’t her own. The weight was gone, too.  She heard a yelp and snapped up, panic pounding in her chest.  She saw the dog standing over the other rogue, his half-white muzzle stained with blood.  There was a long cut on his right shoulder, but the body beneath him was still.

 He nearly pushed Morgan over again when he pushed his nose into her face, smearing blood along her cheek. She pulled her bow back up and put an arm around the dog’s neck, hugging him.  “Good boy,” she murmured.  “Good boy.”  He stood still while she used him as support to pull herself back to her feet.  She could hear the others fighting now.  “C’mon.”

 

000

 

She appeared at Solas’s elbow, the dog running up to stand beside her.  She didn’t miss a beat, firing arrows around Cassandra and Bull.  There was only one mage left now, accompanied by hired swords.  They were losing, too, and getting desperate.  The mage threw himself forward, twisting the Fade to put himself right in front of Morgan and Solas.

Before the enemy mage could even utter the first syllable of his spell, the dog was leaping, grabbing the mage’s hand.  The man screamed, blood blooming around the dog’s teeth.  Morgan put an arrow in his eye.  The dog followed him down, grabbing his throat and _shaking_ , just to make sure.  Solas blinked once in surprise before they had to focus again.

 It was only a small skirmish, and the only one with any real injuries was dog.  The moment the fight was over, the dog dropped his head and tail and slunk over to the dwarf, whimpering softly.  She dropped her bow.  “You did so good,” she praised, moving to crouch beside him.  His head snapped around as her fingers neared the wound.  “Easy, I’m just helping.  Solas.”

 The mage crouched beside her, eyeing the dog.  “Morgan, I’m not—”

“It can’t be that different from healing people,” she snapped.  “Just close the wound and burn away any infection.”  It wasn’t a request, it was _command_.

 Solas murmured something soft in elvhen, kneeling to place his hands on either side of the wound.  Morgan moved to the dog’s head, clasping his face in her hands.  Normally, looking right into a dog’s eye was a show of dominance.  But this dog sought out her gaze, whimpering again.  She kissed his nose, not caring about the blood anymore. 

 “Such a good boy.”  The dog submitted meekly, laying down and rolling onto his side to expose the wound.  As Solas’s hands began to glow—a soft, warm sort of pale green, nothing like the mark—the light flowed along the wound like liquid light. 

 The dog shivered, sneezed, and lifted his head to glance back at the mage. Solas met the big brown eyes.  “You are far more cooperative than most of my human patients,” he said.  The dog huffed, as if to say, ‘of course I am’, and laid his head back in Morgan’s lap.

 She looked up at Cassandra, the stubborn light of victory shining in her eyes. “He might not be a pure-blood, but he’s a proper Ferelden war dog,” she said, stroking one tattered ear.  “He gets to stay.”  She paused, then added, “also his name is Hinter.”

 

000     

 

“I’m going to have to make armor for him,” Morgan said aloud.  Bull blinked, looking over at the dwarf.  She was staring ahead, but her right hand was resting on Hinter’s big shoulders as the dog walked beside her.  He shoved the silly images of a dog in full plate out of his head; he knew what mabari armor looked like.

  “You’re just collecting all kinds of strays, Boss,” he said.

 Morgan paused, then chuckled.  “I think you might be right.”  She glanced back at Solas and Cassandra.  “Elvhen apostates, Seekers, Ben-Hassrath spies… Not the sort of people that usually work together.”

 “And from what I hear, authors and former Templars,” Bull added.  “There might also have been something about a Carta smuggler, but I could be wrong.”

 She rolled her eyes.  “I don’t suppose anyone will ever forget that, will they?”

 “Your enemies are as likely to forget you used to be Carta as you are to forget my horns,” Bull said plainly.

She grinned widely.  “Well, I dunno… I’m pretty short.  I could forget what’s up there if I try hard enough.”  The conversation felt so… easy.  There wasn’t the same pressing fear that she was being judged for every word that she had gotten used to.  Her head told her to be wary, but Bull was exhibiting none of the signs that set off warnings.

 He could just be that good of a spy, and knowing that prevented her paranoia from completely disappearing.  But she still liked talking.  It kept her from thinking about… well, everything.  Out on the road, she had specific tasks to attend to, so it was easier.  Back at Haven, she was constantly taken to the War Room go over the state of things, hearing report after report of demons—and sometimes Templars and mages—wreaking havoc for the people of Ferelden.

She was also growing increasingly annoyed with Ferelden nobility.  The Queen had given the Mage Rebellion sanctuary in Redcliffe Village; something to be commended.  But the lower nobles—Morgan was still learning all the titles and how they related to one another—were infuriating.  Half of them had walled themselves off in their keeps, and those that hadn’t insisted they couldn’t be of any help.

 It was all nug-shit.

 There were people out there, starving and dying, and the nobles were busy tending to their own.  Family was important, of course, but nobles had a duty to the people living on their land.  They had no problem taxing the people or taking a portion of the harvest.  But when the world went to shit and the people needed their protection, they were nowhere to be found.

The change in Morgan’s expression was slight, and Bull guessed that no one else would have noticed.  But he _did_ see.  It was the slight lowering of her brows, the light going out of her eyes and the barest shift in her jaw.  She was very good at keeping things hidden, at wearing a neutral face.  But not good enough to hide from him.

“Are there many mabari in the Free Marches?” he asked.

 Pulled out of her deepening bad mood, Morgan took a moment to answer.  “Not as many.  Mostly terriers and rat-catchers, or water dogs.”  Some of the light returned to her eyes.  “There are these really big dogs, called Foundlands, which will actually pull playing children out of the water, thinking they’re drowning.”

 “Really?”

Morgan nodded.  “Absolutely terrified me when I was small.  There was a pond I liked to swim in, and I was catching frogs in the shallows once.  Then, out of nowhere, this giant black beast comes charging in, grabs me by the back of the shirt, and drags me onto dry land.”  The memory actually made her smile.

 “I thought it was a bear and that it was going to eat me, so of course, I started screaming. That just made the poor dog more worried, and it started trying to lick my face.  Which only made me _more_ sure I was about to be eaten.”

 Bull made his laughter quiet, imagining a tiny dwarf child crying her eyes out as a big dog tried to console her. “Most kids would be terrified of dogs after that.”

 “I was,” Morgan said. “But Mum explained it to me after she realized I hadn’t actually been attacked by a bear.  Took me back and walked me into the water herself.  The dog came back and herded us back onto land.  Mum had to do it twice more before I understood it.”

 Bull wondered if Morgan’s mother was still alive. He knew people outside the Qun had all kinds of family structures.  Morgan had mentioned both a father and a mother; he wondered at her relationship with them, but kept quiet on the subject.  Outside the Qun, family could be a touchy subject.

 “We had terriers at home,” she continued. “ _Father’s_ home. Two of ‘em.  They’d chase down anything; even tried to go for a deer once.”

 “Aren’t most terriers small?” He took note of her specifying her _father’s_ home, and not hers, and how she called her mother ‘Mum’, but her father was just ‘Father’.  Outside the Qun, it meant something.

 “Yes, they are. But don’t tell them that.”  Her smile was distant and fond.  “They think they’re mabari, and act accordingly.”

 “So… like dwarves?” Bull’s comment even got a snort of Solas, and Morgan rolled her eyes at him.  But she was smiling again.

 “Once I learned that the dog was just trying to protect me, I started playing with her whenever I could. Other dogs, too.”  She looked down at Hinter.  “Never thought I’d have a war dog, though.”

 “Didn’t your Hero of Ferelden have one?”

 “Amelia Brosca, you mean?” The light of interest in Morgan’s eyes would have been obvious to anyone.  “Yes, according to the story, at Ostagar, she cured a mabari of an illness and it followed her after that.”  She looked down at Hinter, suddenly realizing the parallels.  The castless dwarf turned Grey Warden had been a childhood hero of hers, and she still looked up to the woman.

 To think that there was any similarity between them was mind boggling. Come to think of it, hadn’t the Champion of Kirkwall had a mabari, too? The conclusion dropped to the pit of her stomach like a stone.  History’s heroes had all had a mabari companion, even Andraste.  Morgan’s face paled.

 Cassandra seemed to be thinking along similar lines, and was actually smiling at the dog now.   “The Lady Andraste had a maabari as well,” she said.  “It is said that when she burned, the dog lay down on the pyre with his lady.”

 Bull saw the restrained flinch; she didn’t like being compared to Andraste, which meant she knew enough about Andraste, and didn’t see herself on the same level. It made sense.  Even if Andraste had been a real woman, she was still the stuff of legends, and being held to the same standard would be daunting to anyone.  Bull wouldn’t like anyone telling him he was Koslun reborn.

 “He’s not a mabari,” Morgan muttered. “Mabari are as tall as dwarves.”  It wasn’t saying much, as the top of Hinter’s head was level with her collar bone.  If dwarves weren’t so densely built, she could have ridden him into battle.

 “I’m sure Harrit can find someone who knows how to make mabari armor,” Cassandra said.

 Though still vastly uncomfortable, Morgan shook her head. “I can make it, I just need the pattern,” she said quietly. 

 The group fell into silence, and continued on, headed for another reported Rift. Solas, at the back of the group, watched the Herald from time to time, but never letting his gaze linger long enough to be felt.  He’d made that mistake already, and she’d whipped around, a learned wariness in her eyes.  It was a pity; she seemed like a kind woman, not naturally given to suspicion and battle.

 But ever since she’d awoken, with the glowing mark on her hand, she had felt… different. Nearly everything had some connection to the Fade, and Mages could sense those connections if they were attuned enough.  Dwarves had always felt like dead spots.  Space where the Fade simply _wasn’t_.  But he could feel the Fade around Morgan.  Faint and weak, but there none the less.

 She had become stubbornly reluctant to talk to him about her dreams, perhaps because he hadn’t quite grasped how terrifying a dream might be to someone without any prior experience. She didn’t feel like a mage, or like a normal person who entered the Fade when they slept.  The mark on her hand pulsed, visible even in the Fade.

 Solas was quite sure that it was the Mark that allowed her to dream in the first place. He’d observed her in the Fade twice now.  In the waking world, it clung to her somehow, wrapped around her left arm in a way that no one else seemed to have noticed.  There were other mages in the Inquisition now, but he was not exactly eager to consult with Madame de Fer.

 While had little care for the dwarva or their culture, he _had_ studied their relation, or lack there-of, to the Fade.  It was their resistance to lyrium that seemed to be the base of it.  Living underground, so close to the raw material, they _had_ to develop a resistance to it, or likely go mad.  It had been noted in several text that dwarves lost this resistance the longer they spent on the surface.

 Morgan had told him she’d been born on the surface, and had never visited Orzammar.  While she could be lying, he was begining to wonder if those conditions could have contributed to her current state.  He had also noticed that magical attacks had more of an effect on her now.  She hadn’t seemed to notice, though.

He would likely _have_ to speak to Vivienne at some point.  While vehemently pro-circle, she was an accomplished mage.  She would also notice the way the Fade clung to Morgan now, the way fine lace caught at calloused fingers.  Moreover, he’d have to find a way to approach Morgan herself.  While she’d shown a keen interest in anything magical, she was leery of everything that marked her as the ‘Herald’.

 

000

 

They found the bodies at sunset, when the sky was darkening to orange.  The smell was there, but the people hadn’t been dead long.  Two adult women and a teenage boy.  One woman was elvhen.  Morgan’s stomach sank.  The killing blows were on their backs; they’d been trying to run.  Torn open bags showed that what few belongings they’d packed had been looted.  It hurt even more when Morgan saw matching rings on the women’s fingers.  A family.

 She opened her mouth, about to ask that they give the family proper rights, when Hinter’s ears pricked, and he trotted over to the bodies.  Morgan was about to shout at him, call him back, but he passed them over, headed for the cluster of bushes nearby.  He lowered his big head, snuffling and eventually sticking his face into the undergrowth.

A high-pitched whine rose from the bushes, dissolving into a very child-like cry.  Hinter raised his head, looking back and making a soft ‘buf’, jowls puffing with the exhale.  He looked form Morgan to the bush, and back again.  The crying grew louder, unmistakably coming from a person.  Looking back at her stunned companions, Morgan edged forward, and parted the bushes.

 Wrapped in dark blankets and half buried in leaves, was a _baby_.  Its crying stopped for a moment when it saw the dwarf, big dark eyes blinking up at her.  Then she started crying again, louder than before.  Feeling the others coming up behind her, Morgan carefully extracted the child from the bush, Hinter sniffing intently at the bundle.

 When she turned around, Morgan was staring in confusion at the wailing bundle in her arms.  It was a baby.  A _baby_ in the middle of all this death.  Then Morgan sniffed, and made a horrified face.  “Oh, Sweet Maker!”  She leaned her head away from the infant.  “You poor little bastard!”  Hinter sneezed and whined, and Solas looked a bit green.

Morgan had been an only child, but her mother had assisted the local midwife more than once.  She found a patch of ground untouched by the slaughter of the family, and unwrapped the blanket.  The child’s skin was far too cool to the touch, so she worked quickly.  She didn’t even _try_ to salvage the child’s soiled smalls. 

 Solas brought over a small, blood-spattered satchel. Inside were clean smalls and a few threadbare garments the might fit the child.  Morgan used some of the water from her canteen to clean the child, wiping with a rag that she tore apologetically from one of the women’s skirts.  Throughout it all, the child—a girl—wailed heartily, determined to let them all know that she was very much alive and quite displeased with her living conditions.

 She was human, from what Morgan could see—no pointed ears, and too large to be a dwarf baby—and seemed in relatively good health, all things considered. But she gave the re-dressed child over to Solas for inspection.  Both she and Cassandra had to hide smiles at how gentle he was, whispering soothing elvhen words as he put a hand on the child’s brow.

 The infant went quiet instantly when his hand began to glow, staring as he drew the hand down the length of her body. Hinter sat close by, also watching intently.

 “Cassandra, where are we going to find a wet nurse?” Morgan whispered, chewing her bottom lip.

 The older woman actually seemed worried. “There’s supposed to be a scouting outpost a few hours east of here. From there could send a raven to Leliana’s contacts at the Crossroads and possibly have something ready by the time we get back.”  She seemed uncertain.

 “Show me where on the map,” Morgan said instantly. “I can go now.”

“No, you cannot just run off into the night alone,” Cassandra argued.

 Morgan squared her shoulders, eyes flashing. “I’m not asking,” she said, her stubbornness showing itself again.  “I’m _going_.  I’m not going to let an infant starve.  The bodies are cold, and we don’t know how long ago she was fed before that.  Not to mention the exposure.”

 “I can keep her warm,” Solas cut in. “As you guessed, her stomach is empty.  I can warm her, and give her water, but she cannot stay out here in the elements.”

 “Thank you, Solas,” Morgan said, offering an earnest smile. She looked back to Cassandra.  “I’ll take Bull with me,” she decided.  Something else occurred to her, and she turned away, ignoring Cassandra’s beginnings of a retort.  Morgan crouched down in front of Hinter, who was watching Solas’s hands glow gold with heat as held the child. 

 “Hinter.” She touched his side to get his attention.  She prayed that he was as intelligent as Mabari were said to be.  “You need to stay with Solas and Cassandra.” She laid a hand on the child’s side.  “You protect her, alright?  That’s an order.”  For a long time, Hinter just stared at her, and for a sinking moment she was afraid he wouldn’t understand.

 He licked Morgan’s face once, then turned back to the child, laying his head in Solas’s lap, letting out an exasperated sigh, as if to say, ‘oh, alright. I’ll watch the small human.’

 With that settled, Morgan returned to Cassandra. The Seeker still looked ready to argue.  “I can travel without being seen, and Bull is a Ben-Hassrath spy.  We’ll move the fastest and are the least likely to be caught.”  She was met by a stern, if slightly uncertain glare.  Frustration boiled in Morgan’s chest.  “Dammit, Cassandra, I’m going!  Show me where on the map!”

 Everyone seemed slightly taken aback by the sharpness in her tone, and Cassandra bristled. It faded almost instantly as the baby let out a quiet whimper.  The Seeker spun to Bull, eyes sharp as obsidian.  “If any harm comes to the Herald—”

 “Hey, I’d be out of a job,” Bull said. “Not about to give up a job this good so easy.”

 “No, you would be _dead_ , qunari,” the woman growled, and no one doubted her sincerity.

 Cassandra’s glare lingered on him for a moment before she pulled out the map. She marked the best path to the scouting outpost, going over the directions several times with Bull and Morgan.  She probably would have kept doing so, if Morgan hadn’t insisted that it was time to leave.

 “Lead the way, Boss,” Bull said. They left behind everything but potions and their weapons.  The second they were ready, Morgan took off running.  She didn’t bother with Stealth, as night was falling and she would be next to impossible to find in the dark.

 As urgent as the need was, Morgan _hated_ running.  She’d certainly built up her endurance since the Conclave, but she still hated running.  Her hip was soon burning, demanding that she stop.  But she didn’t.  They had to cover as much distance as possible, as quickly as they could.  They would have to slow before long, as a well-armed group of bandits had been reported in the area.

 It gave Bull time to think and observe. Now, it was technically a waste of resources to go so out of the way for one person.  Finding a wet nurse or anyone capable of making a formula to hold the child over was unlikely.  Morgan had to know that.  She was risking her life for someone that would likely never repay her.  But he was starting to understand that that was just the way Morgan Cadash was. 

 Everyone else’s life mattered more than hers, even if she was the only one who could close Rifts. She fought to keep herself alive not for simple self-preservation, but for the sake of those that would suffer if she died.  It was admirable, if foolish.  Caring so much for others could easily be used against her.  He had no plans to, but it was still the kind of thing he was supposed to notice.

 He could see that her hip was causing her trouble, too. She was pushing, but she would occasionally fumble, and any time they had to slow due to terrain, it was hard to miss the limp.  But Morgan said nothing.  She made no complaints, pausing only to check the map and look for landmarks.

 They spotted the fire among the trees well before they were supposed to reach the outpost, and Morgan and Bull dropped behind a cluster of rocks. Morgan threw her gaze skyward, glaring hatefully.  “The Maker hates me, I know it,” she grumbled, voice barely audible. 

 Bull just smiled and shook his head. “Could just as easily be refugees,” he offered.  He wasn’t too hopeful, but it was still a possibility.

 “There’s a mage with them,” Morgan said, then instantly looked confused. How had she known that?  She looked down, and closed her fingers around the crackling light of the mark.  It was probably reacting to the mage, and that was how she knew.  She avoided Bull’s curious look.  “Let’s go around.  No time to check them out.”

 He nodded, and they started moving again, giving the fire a wide birth as they cut through the trees. They were just starting to put the light of the campfire behind them, when Morgan paused.  She could feel… _something_.  Her left hand felt suddenly icy, like she had stuck it in a stream swollen with ice-melt.

 With her other hand gesturing for Bull to stay behind her, she reached out with the glowing left, taking slow, hesitant steps forward. Her fingers began to ache with the cold, and she bit her lip against the growing pain.  She crouched, hand drawn to press to the ground.  She did so carefully, body tense, ready to jump away.

 The moment her glowing hand touched the earth, a magic circle flared to life on the ground, glowing blue with frost magic. Morgan stood back up, body tense.  “Shit.”

 A fireball erupted from the darkness to their left, and they dove to the side. Both hurried back to their feet, and Morgan was fumbling for a smoke ball.  A weight crashed into her, and she heard the sickening noise of her bowstring snapping.  Or rather, being cut. 

She felt a sharp yank at the back of her head, her braid grabbed. A hand so hot it _burned_ grabbed her neck, squeezing against her scream.  There was no time to think.  Her tiny belt knife came up, slicing her braid.  She tore away from the hand, lashing out with another dagger.  A childhood spent in a smithy had taught her what burns felt like, and she knew her neck would need looking at. 

 Just as she was opening her mouth, hoping to reason with the mage, Bull loomed behind them. How a man of his bulk had managed to vanish and appear so silently would have to be a mystery for another time.  He grabbed the human’s face in one large hand and twisted sharply.  The crack was one Morgan had heard before, and she shivered as the body crumpled.

 “You good, Boss?”

 Morgan couldn’t give him an answer. Severe burns killed the nerves in the skin, dulling pain.  For all that she could endure, she was sensitive to pain, and there was a decided lack of it for the amount of heat that she had felt.  There wasn’t time to stop and treat it.  She could breathe just fine, and that was all that mattered.  “Let’s go.”  Doing her best not to think about how easily her new companion had just killed the mage, they took off running. 

 There was no sunlight left now, and she had never been quite so glad that she was a dwarf. Dwarven eyes might not glow like elves’ did, but their night vision was just as good.  She led Bull through animal trails, trying to keep in mind how tall and wide he was.  They left the light of the campfire and the dead mage far behind, stopping only when they reached a stream.

 Bull’s head was buzzing with questions, in particular; how had Morgan shown the ice trap without setting it off. It was usually only visible to the mage that cast it, and occasionally to the mage’s allies.  The only time you saw a trap like that was when you activated it, and there usually wasn’t time to regret it.

 But with both moons in the sky now, there was better light. He was just thinking about how they should get back to the shadows, in case there were any more enemies about, when the light caught Morgan.  Her hair was much shorter, her braid left behind.  Her razor sharp dagger had shorn it close at the back of her head, leaving her neck exposed.

 Large, pale blisters rose from a bright red hand-shaped burn on the side of her neck. “Shit, Boss!”  He stepped forward, reaching out, and she flinched, shoulders hunching.

 “We don’t have time,” Morgan said, eyes steely.

 “Bullshit,” he snapped back. Morgan blinked, and they both grinned.  “Stand still,” Bull ordered, moving forward again.  She opened her mouth to object, but he but one large hand on her shoulder and she stilled, submitting to his inspection.

 It was a bad burn, and would have charred her skin if contact had lasted any longer. It had been a tight grip too, the skin not reddened by the burn already starting to bruise.  He muttered a few curses under his breath.  “Your Seeker is going try to mount my rack over her fireplace,” he muttered.

 Morgan was doing her best not to squirm. As fried as the nerves in her skin were, pain still hummed in her neck, tears threatening whenever Bull’s warm hand got too close.  “Like to see her try,” she muttered.  She had no intention of letting Bull catch any shit for something he hadn’t been able to control.

 Bull knew her opinion of mages, so he kept his mouth firmly shut. He was pissed.  Mages were supposed to be all flashy fire and lightning, not sneaking up like rogues with hands like branding irons.  He hated magic.  He let out a quiet growl of frustration as he let his hands drop, going to his belt to pull out the map.

 He held it low enough for both of them to look at. They found the stream quickly, and Morgan breathed a sigh of relief.  The outpost they were headed to was practically right on top of the stream.  While she currently wanted to duck her head in it and let the cool water ease the pain in her neck, Morgan would settle for an easy path to their destination.

 It was when Bull put the map away that she remembered her bow. She let out a long snarl of curses.  It was back with the body where she’d dropped it.  “I’m shit with daggers,” she muttered.

 “I can help with that later,” Bull said. He’d kept the daggers she’d used before.  They were small for him, but perfect for a dual wielding rogue.  He also didn’t like someone so important to have such a weak spot.  “You need to learn to use whatever’s at hand.”

 Morgan nodded; she knew he was right. But she didn’t like using daggers for a reason.  To kill a person with them, you had to get in close.  You had the chance to look your foe in the eye as you killed them, to feel the warmth of their blood.  Just the thought made her stomach lurch.  Demons were one thing, she _liked_ killing demons.

 Killing people made her sick to her stomach. But she took the daggers from Bull, hooking their sheaths to her belt as they started moving again, following the path of the stream.

 

000

 

 “You want us to find a what?”  The scout was incredulous, and Morgan’s vast patience was wearing thin.

 “A wet nurse!” she said again, head craned to the side as the field medic attended to her burn.  “We found a baby in the middle of nowhere; she’s going to starve.”

“I’ve heard there are spells that can make a woman start lactating,” the medic said, glancing up at Morgan for a moment.

The dwarf’s eyes widened, brows coming together.  “Well the only women around are myself, and Seeker Pentaghast.  Are you suggesting that either I or the Right Hand of the Divine—?”

The medic’s face went scarlet.  “No!  No, of course not, Your Worship!”

 Bull muffled a laugh behind one big hand, and Morgan glared as best she could.  “I don’t want to hear a _word_ , Bull!  Not from the man that runs around with his tits out in all manner of weather.”

 “Hey, I have a vest,” Bull said, feigning being indignant while his eye glittered.

The scouts looked between the Herald of Andraste and the big qunari, trying to fathom how anyone could be so impudent with Morgan.  It was also more than a little amusing to watch the petite dwarf yell at the massive qunari, and to have him just smile back.  They sent one of the night birds, as well as a messenger on horseback.

 Morgan felt like all the air had gone out of her when they were gone.  And she felt guilty.  All these precious resources at her fingertips, and she was using them to save one human baby.  What if an urgent message from Leliana came in, and there was no rider to carry her orders further?  The guilt twisted in her stomach, heavy as a stone, almost drowning out the pain in her neck.

Bull took a moment to observe her while he drank from his canteen.  She was staring off in the direction the rider had gone, a haunted look on her face.  She was chewing on that plump bottom lip of hers, and really had no business looking so cute when she was so upset.  It was good to see she was aware of her duty, though.

 While she could be idealistic as she wanted, she knew she couldn’t waste resources on every orphan she found in the woods.  She knew there were more important things to be done.  But even he hadn’t wanted to see that poor little thing, who hadn’t even had a chance to walk or run, starve away to nothing.  He liked children, liked the cute, unabashed curiosity for the world, untainted by the knowledge of just how shitty a place it really was.

He was just opening his mouth to say something when Morgan got back to her feet.  The scouts had loaned her one of their bows, the human-sized recurve turning to a longbow in her hands.  But her strong arms could pull it easily.  All the same, she kept the borrowed daggers, hoping she wouldn’t have to use them.

“We should get back,” she said, voice feeling hollow.  She took a step, and her hip nearly gave out.   She felt Bull move in, knowing he intended to help her, but she moved away, locking her leg and moving stubbornly forward.  The joint would pop back eventually. 

 And there was that resolve again.  She was obviously an unstable mess of anxiety, but under all that uncertainty, she was determined to do the right thing, no matter what it took, no matter what pain she had to endure.  She was willing to push through it all, no matter the personal cost.  It was actually a very qunari sort of thing.

 But he said nothing, matching his pace with hers as they went back into the night.  Either the pain causing her lip was easing up, or she was more stubborn than he’d thought.  He kept yet another smile to himself, oddly proud to be working for such an interesting person.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that since all the other heroes of Thedas have had mabari, that the Inquisitor deserved one too. Also that if anyone would have modern bras, it would be the qunari.


	4. The Begotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams get weirder, and bad things happen. Morgan has lots of issues, and Bull helps.

 

The Begotten:

 

“Sweet Andraste!” Cassandra cried, seeing the bandage wrapped around Morgan’s neck. “What happened?!” Solas’s head snapped around and he held a finger silently to his lips, one arm wrapped around the sleeping child in his lap. “What happened?” Cassandra repeated in a softer voice.

Morgan’s answer was cut off as Hinter thrust his muzzle under her chin, thankfully keeping all four paws on the ground as he greeted her. But well over a hundred pounds of muscle leaning against her, with a wildly wagging tail, was still enough to make anyone pause. She sat down on the ground near the fire, Hinter putting his head in her lap, licking one of her hands while she used the other to scratch him behind the ear.

“Almost tripped an ice trap; mage got a little handsy,” Morgan said, and Bull snorted.

“There is _nothing_ amusing about this,” Cassandra hissed, glaring at the qunari. Her eyes widened further. “And, Morgan, your hair!”

Morgan lifted her hand, running her fingers through the shorter strands. It was longer in the front, hanging raggedly a bit past her jaw. It was almost as sort as Cassandra’s in the back. “Well, just about all the women I know now keep it short, and it felt like time for a change.” It was easier to play off the loss of the hair she’d been so proud of than to be openly sad about it.

“I…” Cassandra faltered for a moment. “I could help you trim it more evenly,” she said stiffly. “When we get back to Haven. I won’t have you cutting it with a knife like Sera.”

“It’s a little late for that.” It finally hit her that Cassandra had used her name, her _real_ name. She hadn’t grown up with the Cadash name, so hearing someone that usually refered to her as the ‘Herald’ call her ‘Morgan’ was more than welcome. Especially from Cassandra, who Morgan respected deeply. She smiled at the Seeker, and Cassandra actually smiled back.

Solas gracefully rose to his feet, not once jostling the infant in his arms. He looked first at Cassandra and then at Bull. “One of you must hold her; she can't be laid on the ground.”

Cassandra instantly balked, eyes widening. Bull moved over to the camp fire and sat down, crossing his legs. “Just put her here,” he said, pointing to his lap. “Qunari run hotter than most people, anyway.” Solas looked like he was regretting his offer, but he laid the child in the qunari's lap. Now fast asleep, the child made no objections, wrapped snugly in her blankets.

Cassandra was even more irate when Solas peeled the field dressing away from Morgan’s neck. The Seeker’s sharp intake of breath lead straight into a string of muttered curses and sharp glares thrown in Bull’s direction. Morgan submitted meekly to the healing, closing her eyes against the soft light from Solas’s hand. She let out a long breath of relief when the stinging heat ebbed away and faded.

“There is some scarring,” Solas said, when he was finished.

Morgan offered a crooked half smile. “Oh dear, now I’ll never be able to wear low cut dresses!” she lamented dramatically. When Solas drew away, shaking his head, Hinter leaped forward, washing Morgan’s face with kisses and pushing her onto her back. A peal of laughter escaped her, simple and joyful.

Fighting back into a sitting position, she stroked the big head fondly, wondering at how she was lucky enough to have bonded with such a dog, pure mabari or no. The dog huffed, and laid down beside her, head in her lap. Scratching idly behind his ears, Morgan watched as Solas took the infant back, orange light glowing from his arms as he wrapped the child in warmth.

Morgan started getting up. “We should get back to the Crossroads as soon as possible,” she said. Hinter grabbed her belt and yanked her back down, crawling across her lap and going limp, a better restraint than any binding.

“The beast is right,” Cassandra said. “You and Bull need to rest.” She held up a hand as Morgan prepared to argue. “Just for a few hours! _Then_ we will go.”

Hinter’s warmth was already creeping into Morgan’s chilled limbs, reminding her of just how tired she was. “But…” She looked at the baby, biting her lip. Then she felt Bull’s hand on her shoulder, and jumped. She hadn’t even noticed him move. Yup, definitely time to rest.

“C’mon, Boss,” he said, nudging Hinter’s rump. “We’ll just toss bedrolls by the fire and take a nap.”

With a long suffering sigh, Morgan allowed herself to be brought over to the fire. She shed her armor and boots, but nothing else, dropping onto her sloppily laid out bedroll. Putting the warmth of the fire at her back, she curled into a ball under her thick wool blanket. Hinter laid himself out against her front, and the heat lulled her faster than any sleeping draught.

 

000

 

 _Morgan sat up, and blinked. She was laying in bed at home, in her_ mother’s _home, back in the Free Marches. It felt… off. The light was tinged green, the edges of things fuzzy. She lifted her hands before her face, flexing her fingers. For a brief moment, her left hand was as naked as the right. Then the mark flared, bright and sharp enough to make her cry out._

_“Morgan?”_

_The voice was familiar, sounding far off and muffled. She untangled herself from the bed and got up. Instead of the ‘walking through water’ feeling that most dreams had, she was now able to move easily. She looked around her room, and saw more details out of place._

_Her bow wasn’t hanging on the wall, like it should have been. There were daggers instead. And rations were stacked out across her desk. She looked back at the bed and realized that Hinter was sleeping at the foot, curled into a ball. An Inquisition banner hung from the wall, and the little statues from the War Table littered the floor._

_“Morgan!”_

_It was definitely a voice she knew, and she struggled to recall the face it belonged to. She walked to the door, lifting her hand to open it. There was no handle. Her name came again, distant and muffled. Worried, maybe?_

 

000

 

 

Morgan came awake sharply, sucking in breath as she tried to shake off the dream. She sat up, scrubbing at her eyes as reality settled back in. She felt Hinter’s weight shifting beside her, and the mumble of familiar voices. Without speaking, she folded her blanket and grabbed her boots, stuffing her feet back into them and tugging at the laces. Quiet babbling followed Solas’s soft footsteps, and Morgan didn’t jump when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll be ready in a moment,” she said, clearing her throat against the sleepy growl. “Jus’ get the fire out.” She felt his eyes linger on her longer than necessary, but she kept her own gaze stubbornly downcast. He said nothing, and went to do as asked.

Once on her feet, Morgan glanced over at Bull, catching him making a face as he rubbed his left knee. But he stopped almost instantly, standing up without complaint. When he glanced back, it took Morgan a moment to look away. Guilt was gnawing at her again, and she pinched the inside of her cheek between her teeth.

When they were finally moving again, silence fell and remained. The feelings from the dream still clung to her faintly, like when you walked through a strand of spider web. It was different from the other times when feelings had followed her out of sleep. Normally, they were raw and visceral, the most basic of emotions. She’d been learning how to deal with them.

But this was something else entirely, and she knew she was going to have to talk about it. For one thing, she remembered every detail with perfect clarity. She switched to chewing on her bottom lip, hands unable to settle. She picked at dirt under her nails, and at stray threads. She got more dirt under her nails scratching at the caked mud on her breastplate.

They walked in a line, Cassandra at the front and Bull bringing up the rear. Morgan had put herself behind Solas, and trying as she might, she kept looking back at him, eyes lingering on the places where he’d tied his cloak to keep the infant secure. She didn’t want to talk to him about her dreams. Talking about them with other people would make them real. Well, real enough that she’d have to actually _deal_ with them. And if there was real meaning in them? Sweet Maker, she hoped not.

Guilt chewed at her. Not only was she wasting precious Inquisition resources, but she was also keeping potentially dangerous information to herself. She was much more aware of the mark now. It was like a hand had reached out to it, pulling back a layer. Now, Morgan was aware of subtle pulses of energy, rolling up her arm to make the mark tingle. The tingling only got worse if she pressed against it.

Hinter’s whine at her elbow broke her from her thoughts. She looked down, watching the dog’s eyebrows shift as he looked up at her. He bumped her arm with his nose, not the least bit bothered when the glowing hand came to rest on the back of his neck. He did sneeze again though. Apparently the Fade made him sneeze. That thought made her smile.

Hours continued to pass in silence, and even with her armor and cloak, Bull could see the tension gathering in the dwarf’s shoulders. She was fidgeting, too, fingers often lifting to run through her newly shortened hair. The fact that the dog seemed concerned did not escape notice either. Dogs under the Qun were different, always serving a purpose. For those with illnesses or other conditions that prevented them from functioning properly, dogs were trained to aid them. These animals were as close to pets as the Qunari came, and even then, they were tools.

But that didn’t stop their owners from bonding with them. No matter how well trained, all animals had personality. And Bull would never deny the comfort of an animal seeking a person out for affection. He’d made friends with his share of tavern cats and stable dogs. But working primarily in Orlais, he didn’t have much experience with mabari. He’d have to ask his Ferelden contacts what they had.

Either way, this one had imprinted on Morgan, and was concerned for her wellbeing. Worry hunched her shoulders, and she continued to tug at her hair. Hinter remained glued to her side, always looking up when her hand left his back.

Morgan knew that she had to speak with Solas. Her dream had been too strange and too real. He was the one best suited to helping her understand what was happening. It wasn’t a difficult thing. But she was afraid. Afraid to be an academic curiosity instead of a person. Afraid that there was something truly bad happening to her, and that no one would be able to help her.

Her fear continued to gnaw at her as they walked, mind numb to the aches of her body. Her hip was hurting again, and it was getting harder to hide the limp, but the pain was dull and shoved down, mind too busy to bother. No matter where Morgan looked, her eyes always returned to Solas’s back.

Biting her lip, she took a long breath, and squared her shoulders, moving to walk beside the apostate. She could feel the moment when his eyes moved to her, questioning and curious, but she couldn't manage to look back. He didn't press, and they walked in silence for a while, tension growing and pulling tight between Morgan’s shoulder blades.

Finally, with a quick intake of breath, Morgan found her voice. “Solas, are dreams different from walking the Fade?”

Curiosity sparked, Solas looked down at the dwarf. She wasn’t looking at him, staring stubbornly ahead. Her face was its usual mask, her emotions shoved down and painted over. “Yes. Dreams of non-mages tend to be more disjointed, playing out memories or things that have never or could never happen.”

“Like a bunch of nugs having a tea-party?” Morgan ventured.

Solas felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but schooled his expression to neutral. “Yes. Silly, nonsensical images that can range from amusing to terrifying. Walking the Fade…” he ventured a glance at her profile, “is quite different. Most spirits and demons use images from a dreamer’s mind to create the landscape, so the dream could look like any place you may have known.”

“Like a childhood bedroom,” Morgan whispered, bracing for prying questions.

Instead, Solas simply nodded. “Yes, exactly. I suppose it would best be described as… clearer. You have more control of your limbs and thoughts, and can move about and examine the world around you, rather than being swept along in the events of a dream.”

“Can… Can mages find other people in the Fade?” She had hoped to appear casual, just posing another question. But a quick glance up showed Solas regarding her in earnest now, brows furrowed and full lips pursed.

“Why has this… _particular_ matter become of interest?” he asked, surprisingly gentle in his probing.

Morgan took a long, slow breath. “I think someone I know is trying to find me?” she said, still unsure. “I was back home, Mum’s home. The door to my room was shut, and someone was calling to me from the other side. I knew their voice, I _know_ them. But I can’t think of a name or face.”

“Mages _can_ locate other dreamers,” Solas said. “But how would anyone know to reach for you? It is hardly common knowledge that you are dreaming.”

Chewing her bottom lip again, Morgan lifted her left hand, the mark’s light dimmed by her gloves. “They might not have been looking for _me_ exactly, but…”

“You think a mage is reaching out to the magic of the Mark,” he offered, and Morgan nodded. “And you say you know them?”

Another nod, more emphatic this time. “It was so far away, but I _knew_ that voice, I’m sure of it.”

“Do you have any mage friends? From Ostwick perhaps?”

“I know a few mages, one was part of the circle.” Morgan continued to chew her lip, brows furrowing deeply. Hinter reappeared at her side, and she stroked his back absently. The realization came to her slowly, and when it hit, something akin to glowing joy spread across her face. She smiled up at Solas so honestly he was taken aback for a moment, unused to her being so open with her feelings.

“Sh’vara Lavellan,” she said. “Sh’vara’s clan did a lot of trading near Ostwick, and my father helped repair their arravells. I knew her when I was small, and we got to know each other better as we got older. She was… always telling me about dreams. I didn’t understand back then, so they just sounded like fantastic stories. I had Josephine send—”

Cassandra had stopped, holding up a hand for silence and stillness. Soundlessly, Morgan moved forward and appeared at the Seeker’s elbow, peering ahead. While they remained in the trees, a small camp was set up in a rocky clearing. It was so out in the open, Morgan winced. There was no military training in any of the campers. A few make-shift tents had been set up, but almost everyone was huddled around a fire, shoulders hunched in threadbare cloaks. Some of the shapes were much smaller than the others, and Morgan’s chest tightened.

“Children,” she whispered. “Cassandra, I don’t think—”

Solas stepped up. “I can feel magic from nearly all of them,” he said, eyes glowing, cat-like, in the dark.

Morgan instantly put herself slightly in front of Cassandra. While she trusted the woman to have her back in a fight, she was still wary of the woman’s opinion on mages. “They’re running,” she said urgently. “There are children there, Cassandra. They’re all cold, scared, and probably hungry. These are the people we’re supposed to be helping.”

For a brief moment, Cassandra looked as if she wanted to argue. Then she saw something in Morgan’s face. There was fire there, a fierce desire to do what was right, and what she believed needed to be done, no matter what anyone else thought. It was a look very familiar to Cassandra, and she somehow knew it was a look seen often on her own face.

“I believe you and Solas should approach,” Cassandra said, nodding. “A mage and a dwarf are the least likely to cause them alarm.”

Morgan shucked off her dagger belt and set down her bow and quiver. Mages _were_ capable of being dangerous, and these were probably already terrified. No sense in giving them anything more to worry over. She looked up at Solas, and he nodded for her to lead the way. The way he deferred to her sent a stab of discomfort through her belly, anxiety catching its claws in her again.

But, as usual, she didn’t complain, and simply did what was expected of her. She and Solas left the trees, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. She could feel Cassandra and Bull watching, and suddenly realized that Hinter had stayed back as well. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw the big animal sitting at Bull’s feet, watching curiously.

Morgan made a mental note to hunt up some more rabbit. And if she ever found who—or _what_ , as often was the case these days—was responsible for orphaning the dog, she would not be held responsible for her actions.

The one who noticed their approach was a child, just old enough to have come into their magic, and wearing the tattered remains of what looked like a Circle robe. They made no noise, instead rushing to tug on the sleeve of a human woman. When she looked over at them, she tensed, but relaxed almost instantly when she saw the staff in Solas’s hand.

Her face was young, but there was a darkness in her eyes, someone careworn and tired beyond their years. Morgan had learned that most mages in Ferelden seemed to all have that look to some degree. When they stopped, a few yards away from the small camp, Morgan realized that Solas was looking at her to speak first. Panic stabbed again. What did she say to these people? How did she approach them in a way that didn’t send them running for the hills.

She knew better than to look back at where their fiercer looking companions were; it was dead giveaway. Instead, she settled on, “we’re with the Inquisition; do you need any help?”

Murmurs swept through the group, friends nudging each other awake and pointing. The attention pressed into her, making her palms sweat under her gloves. Balling her hands into fists—and then swiftly opening them again—she waited, listening to the whispers.

Finally, the woman the child had run to stood, walking forward to put herself in front of all the others. A protective gesture that caught at Morgan’s heart. “You would aid runaway apostates?” Her voice was slow and guarded, eyes narrowed and hands loose at her sides, ready to start fighting if necessary.

Morgan was about to frown, then stopped herself. Of course mages would be wary. Templars had been ‘helping’ mages for centuries, and look how that had gone.

She squared her shoulders, trying not to let her pity show. “We’re helping _anyone_ that is in need,” she said firmly. “And we—”

The child that had been sleeping inside Solas’s coat awoke with a needy wail. Solas looked panicked for a moment, and Morgan tore herself away from the group, rising up on her toes, a hand lifting hesitantly.

“When was the last time that babe was fed?” came a croaking voice. Morgan looked, and saw a hunched, nut-brown old woman staring at them with strikingly pale blue eyes. She was leaning on a thick staff, wearing much patched robes and an old knit shawl.

Morgan’s face fell slightly. “I’m afraid we don’t know. Her family was… killed. We were hoping to find a wet nurse at the Crossroads.” Her mask slipped further as the girl continued to cry, making Morgan’s chest tighten with ache.

The old woman’s eyes were obviously still very sharp, and Morgan could feel her studying them. After a few moments—the baby crying throughout—she waved a hand, gesturing Solas and Morgan over. “Over here. I think we can help each other.”

With a shared glance, Morgan and Solas walked slowly into the circle of people. Their gazes prickled her, making her shiver and her hair stand on end. Her mark thrummed under her glove, reacting to the magic singing in the blood of the people around her. Moving stiffly, she followed the old woman to the open mouth of one of the tents. Another woman sat there, a child of similar age in her arms.

“Alma, do you still have that bottle?” the old woman asked.

Alma, a pale woman with a mess of dusty curls pinned up, eyed the newcomers, then nodded. The babe still nursing at her breast, she turned and pulled something from behind her. With her mother having worked occasionally with the midwife, Morgan recognized the baby feeder. It was a hollowed horn, with a leather teat sealing one end. A rune glowed on one side, not one Morgan recognized.

The old woman took the bottle from Alma, and walked over to Solas. “Here, boy, do you know how to feed a child?”

Solas’s ears twitched slightly, as if affronted. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes to peer at the rune. “Keeping it fresh…” he mumbled to himself, before looking back to the old woman. “You truly have enough to spare?” He extracted the infant from his coat, keeping her wrapped in her blankets.

“If you and your… Inquisition will escort us safely to the Crossroads, we will share what we have with you, for that child’s sake.” Her eyes widened and she shifted to look beyond Morgan. “Sweet Maker, that is a large beastie.”

Spinning, Morgan saw Hinter trotting happily into camp, tail high and wagging as he made his way over to her. Some of the children and others yelped, afraid. But the big animal paid them no mind, pushing between Solas and Morgan to lean against the dwarf, put his head under her hand.

In doing so, he turned her palm upwards, showing the soft green glow of the Mark. The audible gasp that circle the camp made Morgan wince, and she snatched her hand back, curses rising into her mouth. The old woman said nothing, pressing the bottle into Solas’s hands without looking at him. She reached out, and Morgan let her take hold of her marked hand.

Her other hand balled into a fist, and her teeth creaked as she clenched her jaw. But she let the old woman pull off her glove, exposing the crackling green slash across her left palm. Wonder painted itself across the wrinkled face as the icy blue eyes lifted to Morgan. “You’re her… You’re the one chosen by Andraste.”

Despite the gentle tone, the words felt like a knife, and it took considerable effort for Morgan not to flinch. When she finally found the courage to meet the woman’s gaze, she found such hope there that she wanted to scream. But she couldn’t. These people _needed_ the Herald of Andraste, far more than Morgan needed to feel comfortable. But she couldn’t say it outright.

She offered a weak smile, one that could easily be mistaken for bashful and humble. “That’s what everyone’s been calling me,” she murmured. Then, she added, “I have two others with us. They’re a bit more… intimidating.” She realized that the baby had stopped crying, and her smile turned to genuine relief. “One is a former Seeker, and the other is… a very, very big qunari. They’re in the trees. We didn’t want to startle you, especially since one of us has the Templar symbol on their armor.”

Shaking off her wonder and surprise, the old woman shrugged. “Takes all kinds to save the world, I guess.” She leaned around Morgan, cupping a hand to shout. “Come along then, Seeker and qunari!” Hinter barked his encouragement, and Bull and Cassandra emerged from the trees. “Oh, he _is_ big.”

Morgan felt almost instantly better when the two warriors were back among them. The children that been scared before were coming forward, holding out hands for Hinter to sniff. Morgan felt a brief moment of panic before the dog just licked the hand, making the child giggle. He was set upon by the whole group then, all of them petting and stroking the fur. His tail wagged furiously, body language loose and relaxed.

Bull felt a tugging at his pantleg, and looked down. A bright eyed human girl was staring up at him. “Are you a dragon?” She pointed at his horns.

Something crossed Bull’s face that Morgan couldn’t read, and he knelt down. “No, unfortunately I’m not that lucky, kid.” The child made a slightly disappointed noise, but didn’t stop staring at his horns. “Wanna touch ‘em?” Bull asked. Her eyes brightened and she nodded furiously. He chuckled. “Go ahead.”

Seeing the warmth with which Bull greeted the child eased some of Morgan’s discomfort, and she turned to Cassandra, explaining what she wanted to do. “We can afford to move a bit more slowly, since they have milk, and we can make sure that they get to the Crossroads safely.”

“The mages—”

Morgan’s tension flew into anger in a blink. “Are sitting nugs out here!” she hissed angrily. “They’re children and the elderly, Cassandra. We’re helping them.” With her heart pounding in her chest, she spun around, moving to stand closer to Bull. Hinter followed.

Several other children had gathered around the crouched qunari, touching his armor and horns and marveling at the size of his arms. A slightly older girl with thin lips and big eyes stared in wonder. “Y’ could sit on a Templar and smush ‘im,” she said, eyes shining.

“Well, I’ve never tried, but I’ve broken a few chairs,” Bull offered, grinning.

Morgan found herself beginning to smile. The man was full of surprises, and it was impossible not to like someone so good with children. Her mind did her the favor of reminding her that ruthless killers were often loving family men and women. She made a face; her mind loved to throw dark little thoughts in at the worst moments. But she was used to them. Mostly.

It was still a few hours till dawn, and the Inquisition party settled in among the refugees. Solas sat by Alma, the orphan child still in his arms. He didn’t seem particularly overjoyed at the fact, but did not complain, and did not neglect her. Hinter had laid down, and was currently half invisible under a swarm of children. He tolerated them all magnificently.

As the fire was built up, Morgan pulled her hood up, hands folded tightly in her lap. She was surrounded by people and warmth, but felt decidedly alone. She could have struck up a conversation with anyone she pleased, but something in that was absolutely terrifying. She hugged her knees up against her chest, fingers digging into her calves.

She didn’t sleep, just staring into the fire as the hours ticked by, wrapped in her own thoughts. But the child was safe, and would not starve. That gave her a small bit of joy. The fire burned low, and before too long, the misty sunrise began, birds trilling in the trees. Morgan unfolded her stiff limbs to stand, feeling Hinter put his body under her hand. With the others working on making some sort of breakfast out of rations, she took her bow and quiver back to the trees, the dog following at a trot.

 

000

 

The rabbits and rock doves Morgan and Hinter brought back were much appreciated, and the old woman—who it turned out was named Yarrow—used some kind of spell to clear any remains of blood and viscera from the skins. The same spell stripped the feathers from the birds, and Morgan marveled.

Yarrow just chuckled. “They don’t like us learning how to throw fireballs, but preparing animals for food is a useful trick.”

“I’d think that you’d be able to use it against people anyways,” Morgan said, morbidly curious. “You could strip a man of all his hair, or something else awful.”

Yarrow’s laugh was dry and sharp, a crackling bark. “Oh, that would have been a sight. The knight-captain, bald as an egg!” She cackled madly, and Morgan smiled, trying not to look at Solas.

Feeling a large presence at her elbow, she turned, coming face to face—or rather, face to _stomach_ —with Bull. She looked up. “You really are good with that bow.” He held up a skinned rabbit skull, making it look even tinier in his large gray hand. “You shot this lil’ shit through the eye, didn’t you?”

Morgan felt herself actually blushing at the praise. “I like animals,” she said plaintively. “If I’m gonna eat them, I don’t want them to suffer. Even if they don’t die right away, an arrow in the brain puts them into shock and they don’t feel pain.” She shrugged. “Least I hope so.”

“Fuck, you’re such a softie, Boss!” he teased, and she blushed again, despite grinning.

Yarrow thwacked him on the arm with her staff. “Where do you get off using such foul language around a lady?” she snapped.

Bull actually _paled_. At least Morgan thought he did; she wasn’t used to reading qunari faces. He ducked his head and gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Ma’am,” he mumbled.

Yarrow’s frown turned to a grin, and she gave his massive bicep a few slaps. “By the Maker, though, young man. You _are_ a big one. What do they _feed_ you over there?”

Bull shrugged, a wicked glint in his good eye. “Oh, you know; virgins, newborn babies, stuff like that.” Morgan snorted, but looked quickly over at Yarrow, hoping his humor wouldn’t put the woman off.

Yarrow just cackled again, shaking her head. “Keep an eye on this one, Herald. He’s crafty.” But the smile in her eyes was real, and something in Morgan twisted as she looked at Bull, Yarrow walking off to speak with Solas and Alma.

Bull saw her looking at him, fighting to keep her face neutral, to keep her mask on. He just shrugged. “Always had a way with the ladies,” he said.

Morgan put on a smile, pushing the strange feeling down. “You don’t fool me, ser. I heard Krem, _and_ Stitches. You have a way with ladies, men, and everyone in between.”

Bull stomped on the urge to comment that he liked her calling him ‘ser’, and a question about if his charm extended to dwarven ladies. Her eyes were all crinkled up, full cheeks flush from the cold, lit with the dim light of dawn. She was very pretty. She must have felt him looking, because she made a silly face, sticking out her tongue.

“Not my fault I’m universally appealing,” he sniffed, taking Cassandra’s sound of disgust—you could _hear_ her eyes roll—as a badge of pride. Morgan giggled, and it was real. So was her smile; genuine, sweet, and warm. She felt her chest flutter and turned away, moving to put her pack back on. This fluttering business was getting out of hand.

Bull watched her go. Despite the mask she fought so hard to keep in place, she was a soft person underneath. Bashful and self-conscious in a way that was oddly endearing. There was so much joy and snark in her, tangled up with all her anxiety. And anger, too. That was harder to pick up on, she buried it so deeply. But it was here, hot and volatile, stoked to flame more easily than she’d like to admit.

He smiled to himself, wishing he’d been there to see her deck the merchant for calling an elf ‘knife-ear’. He also had the feeling that she’d react similarly to anyone that called him ‘ox-man’. While he didn’t need her help in dealing with assholes, the idea of the tiny dwarf beating people up on behalf of the giant qunari was definitely worth a smile or two.

When camp had been broken, and all traces of it erased by a very cautious Morgan, they set out for the Crossroads, dew clinging to their boots and darkening the edges of their cloaks. It seemed like there were dozens of children, but there were only eight of them, including the infant Hinter had found in the bushes. They ranged in age from just shy of their teens, to a little four-year-old boy carrying a much patched blanket.

While moving, Hinter seemed less interesting to the children, so they would occasionally break away to walk by Morgan and Bull at the rear. Most of them had never seen a dwarf, and _none_ had ever seen a real live qunari.

“Lady?”

Morgan blinked at the small voice, looking over. The girl was probably barely thirteen, and was already at eye level with her. Morgan _liked_ children, but never knew how to act around the older ones. They couldn’t be placated with kind words, or comforted with simple lies. Morgan _wanted_ them to have a childhood, to not have the awfulness of the world shoved in their faces at so young an age. But the girl was wearing circle robes—much too large for her—so she had probably already been robbed of a childhood.

“Yes?” Morgan’s voice was hesitant.

“Are you going to send us back to the Circles?” There was a hardness in the girl’s dark grey eyes that no child should ever have, and Morgan’s hands clenched.

“Mages _do_ need a place where they can learn and practice magic safely,” she said. The girl looked so hurt that the rest of Morgan’s words came in a rush. “But the Circles were wrong. Mages were treated like prisoners, just because of the way they were born. It’s not right. I want people like you to have a place to be safe, really safe. From Templars, from demons, from everything.”

The girl seemed to feel a bit better. “You have a Seeker with you. They’re like bigger Templars.”

“Cassandra left the order,” Morgan said. “She’s… complicated. I’ve heard stories about her; I imagine everyone has.” She glanced at the back of Cassandra’s head, before looking back to the girl. “She believes that the Templars were wrong to go after mages like they did.”

“Can’t trust Templars,” the girl said quietly, looking away. As she did, her short hair slid forward, exposing part of her neck. Old, yellow-green bruises were visible in the growing light, shaped like large fingers.

Icy rage settled in the pit of Morgan’s stomach, and her jaw clenched. She knew that the Templars were not treated well by the Chantry, made slaves to lyrium, their will to help and protect perverted for the sake of power. But she would never forgive unnecessary violence, especially against children. There was no excuse that would ever make violence against children necessary.

The anger sharpened Morgan’s senses, her own protective drive overtaking her need to avoid attention. Right then, it didn’t matter if people knew who she was, or what they thought of her. They could know every detail of her mind and past, but as long as they left the mages and children alone, Morgan didn’t care.

She was alert to every track they passed, to the movement of animals in the trees, the birds overhead. She stayed at the rear, disguising the most obvious signs of their travel. A skilled tracker could still find them if they tried, but there were so many people traveling now, that it would be hard to discern who was going where.

The others seemed to pick up on her need to keep a low profile. Solas seemed to have practically memorized the map of the Hinterlands, and let them around the more well-traveled roads, going beside them in the trees, and skirting them whenever possible. Bull always moved to put himself on the exposed side of the group, sweeping back and forth to guard the more vulnerable spots.

Despite all their best efforts, they still encountered trouble.

They sky had faded from dusky violet to a golden orange, shadows becoming more noticeable. Solas heard the clank of armor first, darting up to the head of the group where Cassandra walked, touching her elbow and pulling her to a stop. When Morgan heard voices—probably male—coming towards them, she gave Bull a quick, panicked look, before she flitted through the group to the front.

Solas was _almost_ used to the soundless way Morgan appeared beside him, tensing only for a moment before he felt her touch his arm, and looked down. She met his gaze with raised brows. “Templars,” he said simply. For a brief moment, he saw anger and panic flash in her eyes, mouth remaining a stern line.

“Guard the back with Bull, please,” she said, moving to stand beside Cassandra. Solas nodded, fingers flexing on his staff as he moved to do as asked.

Morgan strung her bow without looking, rolling her shoulders. “Solas says Templars,” she murmured. “Here’s hoping they’re the reasonable sort.” Cassandra made a noise of agreement beside her, hand on the hilt of her sword.

The Templars crested the hill a few moments later, surprise and wariness flickering across their faces as they saw the mismatched group. They stopped as well, eyes sweeping right over Morgan to focus on the Templar symbol emblazoned on Cassandra’s breastplate.

Morgan didn’t know anything about Templar ranks aside from ‘knight-captain’ and ‘knight-commander’. But the man that seemed to be in charge stepped forward slightly, seeming to sense the wariness of the other group. “Seeker Petaghast!” he called, seemingly relieved to see her.

Cassandra was obviously used people _she_ didn’t know already knowing her. She gave a curt nod in return, hand still on her sword. It was a good start though, compared to other encounters the Inquisition had had with members of the order.

Morgan’s eyes swept quickly over the group, counting. Eleven of them; a bigger group than usual. Her eyes caught on one of them, a boy in his late teens, skinny and freckled. There were dark circles under his eyes, and there was a bruise on the side of his jaw. He was afraid. His eyes flicked around his comrades, looking from one to the other with a nervousness that bordered on panic. Surely he wasn’t scared of the mages and refugees? Then Morgan saw one of the older men shoot the boy a sharp look, dragging him to the back of the group and out of sight.

Alarms began to scream in her head, and she flicked her gaze up to Cassandra. There was a brief surge of relief when she saw the hardness of the Seeker’s expression; she’d noticed, too. Then she spoke, voice clear and pitched to carry the distance between them. “We are the Inquisition, escorting refugees to the Crossroads for aid,” she declared.

The lead Templar blinked, feigning confusion. But there was a sharpness under it, like poison covered up with honey in wine. “Refugees? They’re rebel mages, Lady Pentaghast.”

“And?” Cassandra raised a solitary brow.

The Templar laughed as if Cassandra were a child, and Morgan could feel the anger staring to ooze from her companion. “And? And _mages_ are trouble. We can deal with them far better.”

The outright bigotry both saddened and enraged Morgan. Most at least _pretended_ to be kind, just people. Part of her wanted to just shoot the man, put an arrow right through him. That anger frightened her. Then another voice was speaking, and she recognized it as her own.

“These people are under my protection,” she said, wondering where the sudden rush of confidence had come from. “Thank you for your offer, but we require no assistance.” She also had no idea where the diplomatic words came from. How was she able to remain so polite?

The man gave a derisive snort. “ _Your_ protection? Who the fuck are you?”

_Who am I? Excellent fucking question._

Morgan looked back at the group behind her, huddling close and clinging to each other. They were terrified, and all looked to her now, full of hope. Her mind screamed, thrashing under the weight of their hope and need. It was so heavy… But they needed her. In their eyes, she was the only thing standing between them and returning to their abusers. She was the only one that could save them.

Heart pounding, she stripped off her glove and thrust her glowing palm out, focusing on the tingle of the Mark until it flared and crackled with power. “I am the Herald of Andraste. I promised these people my protection, and I will not abandon them. I will not abandon them as you abandoned your order and your vows!”

The eyes at her back burned, the weight of responsibility enough to make Morgan weep. But she couldn’t be Morgan. Morgan was weak and soft. The Herald was strong, had to be. She would not let people suffer when she could protect them, when she finally had power to stand up for the downtrodden. She could fight for them even though she’d never been able to fight for herself.

Rage twisted away the false smile on the Templar’s face. “Stupid dwarf bitch! How dare you blaspheme the name of Our Lady! Twisting her glory to suit your purposes!” Swords were drawn, and the refugees cried out, shrinking back in fear.

Before anyone could move, an arrow flew from Morgan’s bow, landing at the lead Templar’s feet. He jerked back, looking up. She already had another arrow ready, sighted in on his armorless head. “Your Lady _weeps_ ,” she spat. “She weeps as you twist the Chant of Light to something dark and obscene. You twist words of love and equality to suit _you_ , putting yourself above others, hurt them for simply being born as they are. You will not touch these people.”

Maybe she should have continued to be diplomatic, not risen to their bait. But they were _wrong_. Morgan might not have sung the Chant often, but she believed in Andraste and her teachings, and would not have them thrown at her by those that didn’t even follow them!

“Surrender the mage criminals!” the Templar bellowed, pointing with his sword.

“We’re not criminals!” It was the girl with the gray eyes, expression twisted nearly to madness. She fought off the clutching arms and ran out in front of Morgan.

It happened so quickly.

Someone yelled something about an attack, someone screamed for them to stop, and then there was an arrow sticking out of the girl’s chest. Everything faded to silence, all eyes on the girl as she swayed, clutching at the shaft as blood bloomed around it, darkening her robes. Then she fell, boneless to the ground.

“What did you do?!” It was the young Templar, trying to pull the bow out of his comrade’s hands. “What did you _do_?!” he screamed, tears coursing down his cheeks.

All of Morgan’s compassion drained away. She drew the bow and fired, taking the other archer in the neck. The young man screamed again, jerking back. Morgan dropped the bow, drawing the daggers from her belt. The part of her not engulfed in hatred screamed that she wasn’t good enough with the daggers. These were knights, trained with swords! Far better to take them out from a distance, punching arrows through their armor.

But she didn’t just want them dead. She wanted to _hurt_ them. Morgan wanted to cause the Templars pain, to watch them die, watch the blood drain from their bodies. Mindless of her companions and the refugees, she vanished into Stealth, appearing behind the lead Templar.

She jammed the first blade under his arm, the other going up under his back plate and piercing his kidney. He went down screaming, and she turned away, sidestepping a downward swing of a sword. A barrier burst around her, and she lunged in again. She ducked under more swords, stepping inside their guard and slicing throats. She was aware of Bull—his bulk recognizable even in her rage—appearing at her side, axe cleaving away a man’s massive shield.

Fire and lightning fell from above, far more than Solas would have been able to conjure on his own. A fire ball bounced off a Templar shield and struck Morgan in the shoulder. She smelled burnt leather and kept going. Blood splattered her face as she sliced her way through. But she was clumsy, unskilled. More than once Bull had to kick her feet out from under her to keep her from getting killed.

But she didn’t stop, not until only one Templar was left standing. She rounded on him, face a snarling mask of blood. It was the young man. He fell, scrambling backwards on his hands, pleading for his life as he sobbed. Morgan's knees turned to water and she fell, daggers slipping from her fingers. She saw the horror in his face, the fear, and realized it was directed at _her_.

Bull’s hand came to rest on Morgan’s shoulder, the gentle contact starting to pull her from the haze.

She could feel the blood drying on her face, her lips… Maker, she could _taste_ it! She hadn’t eaten anything that morning, but she bent over and wretched stomach acid until her throat burned. She was shaking badly when it stopped, breath coming in ragged gasps. Horror gripped her tight, and she didn't look up as she heard the young man scrambling away.

“Morgan.”

That was Bull’s voice. He’d called her by her name. She looked up, meeting his face. “I killed them,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes and running tracks through the blood on her face.

Bull said nothing, picking up the daggers and tucking them into his belt. He helped her to her feet, and kept his arm around her as he lead her back to the group. Her eyes fell on the body of the girl, eyes staring skyward, and started to shake again. Bull's hand tightened on her shoulder, and he pulled her away. She was dimly aware of being sat down, and of a pain in one of her arms; she wasn't sure which. Something fell into her eye, and she blinked, rubbing with her sleeve.

When she pulled the arm away, she saw it was blood. Her exploring fingers found a gash on her brow, cutting through the edge of her left eyebrow. Bull frowned, taking a rag offered to him by Yarrow. He put the rag in Morgan’s hand and pressed it to the gash on her forehead.

When Bull started to undo the buckles of her armor, she flinched, senses rushing back. He held his hands up before him, open and spread. “You took a blow below the pauldron, Boss. You're bleeding,” he said gently, voice as soft and easy going as ever, like he was telling her about the weather. “Gotta have a look. Solas'll be over in a second.”

Blinking, Morgan swayed slightly where she sat. “Is anyone hurt?” she mumbled.

“Not enough for you to worry about.” When she nodded, he went back to undoing her pauldrons. She felt Hinter's muzzle under her hand, and the weight of his head in her lap. Looking down, she saw red on his muzzle, and flinched. She hadn't even been aware he'd been fighting; she should have been looking after him. As she stroked his ears, she mumbled apologies to him.

“Boss.” Bull's tone made her look up, and she saw he had her coat in his lap, armor on the ground next to him. “I need to take your mail and your shirt off, okay? I'm assuming you're not naked under the mail, but—” Too numb to be self-conscious, Morgan nodded dumbly, lifting her arms over her head. That sent a tugging pain shooting through her left upper arm, and she cried out.

“Easy. Just stay still.” He peeled away the chain-mail shirt, and then the wool tunic underneath. He almost made a comment about too many layers at the cotton under-tunic, but just peeled that away as well, being as gentle as he could. Her skin prickled with the cold, but she didn't react, sitting in just her stay, biting her lip against the pain.

Bull draped his cloak over her right side, tucking it under her injured arm. He pulled out the metal flask he kept and pulled the cork with his teeth. She twitched as he poured the alcohol over it, but made no sound. Yarrow silently gave him more clean rags as he dabbed at the blood. Thankfully the blade hadn't cut into her muscle, but it was a deep gash. Deep enough to need sewing if there hadn't been a mage about.

“Hey, Solas!”

It turned out that Alma had some healing ability as well, and Solas left her to tend to Cassandra. He knelt in front of Morgan, and she looked up, not really seeing him. Bull went to stand away, but Morgan's hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist. Instead he moved to her side, letting her hold his hand while the elf sat before her injured arm.

While Solas worked, the cloak slipped slightly. In an attempt to distract Bull nudged her good arm, making her look over. “Didn’t peg you for one for tattoos, Boss.” When she furrowed her brows, he nodded politely at her cleavage. She looked down. Oh.

A simple outline of a crystal was tattooed below her collarbone, the lines clean but the crystal rough and imperfect. “Yeah, that was the first one _I_ chose,” she mumbled.

His brow rose. “That _you_ chose?”

Her voice was stiff, eyes far away. “Members of the Cadash house by blood that work for the Carta are required to get a castless brand tattooed somewhere when we join. Something about remembering how the noble caste wronged us or something.” Using her good arm, she pushed the strap of her stay to the side, exposing the purple mark above her right breast.

Bull made a face, the expression tugging at his scars. “That’s not slave-y at all,” he muttered.

“Like marking cattle,” Morgan muttered. She poked a pink scar above the tattoo. “Got sick with fever once and tried to cut it off.”

“Pretty sure there are spells to remove tattoos,” Bull said.

Morgan went to shrug, but pain made her still “Maybe. But it’s kinda like…” She was still staring straight ahead, not really seeing anything. “The First Blight basically destroyed dwarven culture. Even those living in Orzammar have so little left of their history. I don't know much about our customs, or why we are the way we are. That culture is part of me, but I don’t…”

“It’s a connection,” Bull summarized.

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s messed up how I got it, but… It’s like a part of me I don’t like, but have accepted, I guess.”

Bull realized that he was lucky. He’d grown up surrounded by his people’s culture, taught their history and customs. He knew just about everything there was to know. Morgan’s history was cut to pieces, lost to darkspawn attacks and time. In an odd way, he understood knew that feeling, wanting to belong but feeling out of place. But not enough to ever admit out loud. Or even to himself.

When Solas was done, there was a big, thick, bumpy scab on her arm, and a chunk missing out of her eyebrow. His magic worn from the fight, he hadn’t been able to do much more than help things stop bleeding. She thanked him, and put her clothes and armor back on. She turned away when she saw mage fire engulf the bodies, burning blue and eerie as it consumed the flesh of the dead.

Instead, she examined Hinter, making sure that he wasn’t too hurt. Some of his scabs had been torn, and she cleaned them with the elfroot salve from Stitches. She gave him water from her canteen and did her best to clean the blood from both their faces. Then they were moving again, giving the burnt ground and armor a wide berth.

The young man was probably long gone.

Morgan came back to herself slowly, and fell into a deep bout of self-loathing. She hated her anger. Fueled by frustration long ignored, it lashed out with a violence that scared her. Wanting to hurt people scared her. What upset her the most was the fact that she didn’t regret killing the Templars. She couldn’t bring herself to regret their deaths, not even a little. And that lack of empathy was terrifying to her.

She remembered, back before the Carta, when she had been different. When she had been her real self. She had been born Morgan Laton, daughter of a blacksmith and a jeweler. Raised to be kind to everyone, she had trusted everyone she met until they gave her a reason not to. That Morgan had hated seeing mice killed by cats, but had also hated to think of the cats going hungry.

Morgan Laton had been soft and kind and free with her emotions. All things that were dangerous for a member of the Carta. So Morgan Laton was locked away, buried under Morgan Cadash, a neutral, topically pleasant, if slightly self-serving woman. It had always scared Morgan that she might lose herself in the role she had to play for the Carta, that she would eventually become as cold as the rest of them.

Wanting to kill the Templars brought that old fear back to life. She didn’t ask for the daggers back from Bull, clinging to her bow. She couldn’t charge in like that again. It was dangerous for her, dangerous for who she wanted to be. She wanted to be good, to be the Herald for people. She didn’t want to make them scared.

 

000

 

They reached the Crossroads by noon. By some miracle, Leliana’s people _had_ found a wet nurse, and older woman with wide hips that seemed made for supporting a child. Morgan shook off the slightly sexist thought, but smiled as the woman cooed at the baby Solas handed her, tickling a laugh from the baby girl.

She felt Bull at her side, and relaxed for a moment before she felt odd. Being so comfortable around someone she barely knew was uncomfortable and… strange. Then he spoke, and some of the discomfort fell away. “You did good, Boss,” he said. She looked up and saw honesty in his face, instead of just his pleasant, agreeable mask.

As much as her self-loathing didn’t want to let her think so, Morgan knew Bull was right. She had done a good thing, even if she had killed people. She had protected the innocent, and that was what Heroes were supposed to do, right? She shivered at the idea that she really could be a hero, looking down at her hand, flexing the fingers as the mark glimmered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've redone the scenes with the Templar killing and the aftermath for Morgan a few times. Let me know if I could do anything better.


	5. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends in Haven. WARNING: Mentions of self-harm and hints at emotional abuse in this chapter.

 

Friends:

 

The closer they got to Haven, the more Morgan wanted to drop into Stealth and just slip in unnoticed. All she wanted to do was take off her boots and soak her feet in hot water. Or soak _all_ of herself in hot water. She didn’t want to greet people, or have meetings with Cullen, Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana.

She lifted a hand and touched the scaring wound on her brow, remembering. She had already decided to be the Herald for people, and he had always been good at pretending. So she squared her shoulders, and gave her best stern nod to the guards that pulled the gates open, others shouting their return.

Bull watched her as they entered the village, knowing he could take a good long look at the fortifications later. She was different now, drawing herself up. It was amazing how easily she could shift, slipping into a role. She must have been good at her job in the Carta. She didn’t wave at the people calling out to her, but she gave small smiles, that would look genuine and magnanimous to the untrained eye.

If he hadn’t known how good at playacting she was, Bull might have believed it too. It was amazing how well she settled into the role of humble leader, even if she was probably terrified on the inside. She knew what the people needed, and gave it to them, sacrificing her own thoughts and feelings for the good of the others. It was actually a very qunari thing to do.

Morgan’s jaw was aching from the tight clenching, and she was about ready to burst as she neared the steps that lead up to the Chantry. Her focus was shattered by a shout.

“Morgan!”

Head snapping up, Morgan stared in disbelief at the top of the steps. A Dalish elf stood there, hands on their hips and staring down at the dwarf. The gold tattoos of Dirthamen were bright against the dark brown skin of their face, gold flecked eyes glittering with excitement.

Morgan’s mouth worked soundlessly for several moments before she was able to speak. “Sh’vara?!” she choked out.

“It _was_ you!” Sh’vara said, staring down the steps, their smile showing straight, white teeth. Despite the soreness in her thighs, Morgan ran up the steps, meeting the elf in the middle, arms going tight around their waist, clutching at the fabric of their cloak.

The warm embrace of her friend washed away all pretense, and Morgan started shaking. Sh’vara kissed the top of her head and kept their friend close, stroking her back gently and completely ignoring everyone else. When Cassandra cleared her throat, the elf shot the Seeker a look.

“What’s wrong, shemlen? Never seen friends greet each other before?”

“Herald,” Cassandra said hesitantly, “you _know_ this person?”

Hurriedly wiping her eyes, Morgan stepped back slightly, turning to face the others. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Sh’vara has been my friend for a long time. They spent a lot of time in Ostwick.”

Solas tilted his head. “You are Dalish,” he observed.

Sh’vara raised a brow. “Yes. And you are not.”

Though they carried no staff, Solas could feel Veil humming around them, ready to bend to their will. Looking back to Morgan, they gathered the woman’s hands in theirs, attention drawn to the left one. For the first time, Morgan wasn’t bothered by someone staring at the Mark. She felt the tickle of Sh’vara’s long nails as their fingers traced the edge of the Mark, the green light flaring.

They looked up, searching Morgan’s tired face. “It really was you,” they whispered. “ _You_ were in the _Fade_.” Their eyes crinkled with excitement for a moment before something else occurred to them. “Creators, that must be terrifying! Are you alright? Are you sleeping okay?”

Morgan smiled, tears shining in her eyes. “It’s getting better. Here, let me introduce you!” The elf’s gaze lingered on Morgan’s face, uncertain, before nodding. Morgan turned, and she and the elf walked back down the steps.

Sh’vara’s first act was to size up Cassandra, eying the Templar symbol on her breastplate. “I haven’t seen so many Templars in the same place before,” they muttered.

“They aren’t bothering you, are they?” Morgan asked quickly, something flashing in her eyes. Bull worked his jaw to hide a smile.

_Like a fucking mama bear._

Sh’vara sighed and shrugged. “Not as much as I expected.”

“They better _not_ be,” Morgan huffed, and Sh’vara smiled. “Anyways, the tall one is Ca—well, I guess _Bull_ is the tall one now. This is Iron Bull, we brought him up from the Coast. The tall _lady_ is Cassandra Pentaghast. And Solas is the mage that helped me figure out this whole mess of nug-shit.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand.

Sh’vara stepped forward, not much taller than Morgan, and stood in front of Solas. They looked at him for a long time, and the pale mage actually seemed uncomfortable. Saying nothing, they turned to Iron Bull, and whistled lowly. “Damn, and I thought Asala was big.”

Bull blinked and raised a brow. “That’s a qunari name.”

“Well, Asala _is_ a qunari. Or Vashoth, rather,” Sh’vara said.

“Did you and Asala get my letters?” Morgan asked. “I had Josephine send them as soon as I woke up, and Mum…” She trailed off, a pained expression on her face.

“We didn’t get any letters. I just saw the whole in the sky and bought passage over here. That shit,” she waved at the Breach, “is fucking with the Veil everywhere, even in the Marches. Not as bad as here, though.” They shivered. “The Veil is so thin you could cut it with a spoon.”

“Wait, so Asala is _here_?” Morgan’s eyes were wide. “But last I heard she was still working with that mercenary group; the Valo-something.”

“Valo-Kas,” Sh’vara corrected. “They were already in Ferelden, doing some hush-hush mission for the Chantry. Asala was actually at the Conclave when it blew.” Bull saw Morgan go rigid, fear slipping past her mask. “No, she’s fine!” Sh'vara rushed to say. “Still blind as a bat, though.”

Morgan heaved a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. She was suddenly exceptionally tired, and her feet ached. She felt Hinter beside her and leaned on him, smiling as Sh’vara’s eyes widened. “Found him in the Hinterlands,” she said. Hinter’s tail was wagging furiously, and he whined up at Morgan. “No jumping,” she ordered. “Sit down and they'll say hello.”

Hinter sat soundly, tail sweeping dust off the steps. The elf gave him a smile and scratched him behind the ears. Then they looked back to Morgan. “I’ll say hello to everyone else later. You need to rest.”

Morgan’s bottom lip stuck out stubbornly. “No, I—” Hinter took her hand gently between his teeth and began to pull. “Hey!” Morgan protested. “You’ve never been here before; you don’t know where I _live_!” But with his powerful nose, Hinter found the small house she’d been given, not letting go of her until she had opened the door and stepped inside.

There was a fire going in the fireplace, and a copper bathtub was sitting in the middle of the room, the red rune glowing under the steaming water. Morgan could have wept. She turned to Hinter. “I’ll stay here, but you need to eat. Hold on.” She limped to the desk, her hip screaming for her to lay down. She penned a quick note and tied a loop of twine around it. “Here. Find the kennel master—he’s the one with all the other dogs. Give him this, and you’ll get food, you understand?”

Hinter blinked for a few moments, before taking the twine handle in his teeth and trotting back out the door. As he went, Morgan made a mental note to find some leather for a collar, and metal for armor, and a bed, and… Her head started spinning and she shut the door.

Morgan didn’t realize how truly spent she was until she sat on a chair to remove her boots. The moment the weight was off her feet, fatigue rolled through her, joints stiff and muscles full of knots. Her back protested every moment she was bent over pulling off her grieves and boots, and she cursed quietly as she straightened, arching backwards until her back gave a few dull pops.

Her armor thunked dully to the floor, scattering bits of dried mud. She was able to ignore most of the blood splatter, as it had gone rusty brown. She could still smell it though, even when she stripped down to her stay and small clothes. She put down the simple bar across the door, and unlaced her stay as she walked back to the tub. Breathing another sigh of relief as the supportive garment peeled away, she kicked it and her smalls into the pile of clothes and armor.

Looking down at her naked body, she almost laughed. Her stretchmarks and tattoos had been joined by a vast array of bruises. Her mother had always said that Morgan bruised like a ripe peach, and she hadn’t been wrong. From fading green-ish yellow, to fresh, red purple things, her pale skin was practically a rainbow. There were new scars too, at least there would be. So many blisters had burst and healed on her feet that she was sure she had enough callous to walk barefoot through the Anderfells.

Her hands were a particular mess. It felt as if all her knuckles had become solid chunks of scab, and little scars crisscrossed her fingers and the backs of her hands. For a moment, she ran her fingers along the fine rows of scars on her wrists, their texture familiar. A weak smile pulled at her lips as she realized she didn’t want to add to them. The darkness of her own mind that made her want to wasn’t _gone_ , by any means. It just wasn’t as strong.

A thought occurred to her, and the smile grew stronger. She’d made a friend. A friend that didn’t follow her because she was touched by the Maker, or blessed by Andraste. Bull’s image floated into her head, the sound of his laugh and his voice, the feel of his big hand on her shoulder. He was a force of nature layered under muscle and puns.

Looking down at herself, Morgan’s stomach twisted. She had large breasts, but their weight caused them to hang slightly, and her stomach was rounder than she would have liked. While there was strong muscle in her arms and legs, there was still extra flesh that jiggled when she moved. And the stretchmarks… like red veins pained on the surface of her skin. Shoving Bull out of her mind, Morgan lowered herself into the hot water.

Face twisting at the level of heat, she sank down until just her nose and the top of her head were still above the water. Women were easier, more forgiving of physical flaws. In Morgan’s experience, men were not. As nice as Bull was to her, she found it difficult to believe that he’d be attracted to someone as short and round as she was, nice tits or no.

And her being attracted to him was _stupid_ , she barely knew him, and certainly didn’t trust him. Sleeping with someone you didn’t trust was very, very stupid. But she couldn’t shake the memory of how much of her shoulder just one of his hands covered. He could probably wrap his hand all the way around her throat if he wanted, and she already knew he could lift her like she weighed no more than a baby nug. To have all that power above her, holding her down...

Those thoughts made her squirm, and she pressed her thighs together. She growled at herself, ducking her head under the water and holding her breath as long as she was able. Coming up, she decided to think about the fact that her friends were here. The friends she _did_ trust, that she knew held no secrets that could hurt her, and would never divulge any secrets of hers.

Sh’vara Lavellan and Asala Adaar were both mages, exceptionally powerful in their fields, and would be a great asset to the Inquisition… _if_ they stayed. And Morgan wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask them to. They were her best friends in the world, people she would fight to the death for. Asking them to throw their lot in with those at the forefront of the end of the world felt selfish and wrong. They had their own lives and families. She couldn’t ask such sacrifice of them.

Then she tried to imagine telling Sh’vara to leave, and snorted. There were still many inured at Haven, many that had been frail to begin with and could not safely return home. Adan did his best, but they had no proper healer. As much as Sh’vara might complain about stupid shems, they were a kind person, and could not turn away from those in need. And while Solas was an excellent field medic, he wasn’t a healer the way Sh’vara was.

And Asala… A giant qunari woman with blind, clouded eyes wielding a lightning staff the size of a small tree was intimidating to just about anyone. No one would guess that her favorite animals were birds, and she would spend hours in the woods, sitting still with bird feed in her hands, waiting for the birds to approach. She particularly delighted in the bright yellow finches seen in the summer. She hadn’t been born blind, and still remembered and described the colors with such fondness.

A thought occurred to Morgan, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. Bull was a proper Qun qunari, and Asala’s parents were runaway Sarebaas; the qunlat word for mages, meaning literally, ‘dangerous thing’. Considering her parents, and her own life experience, it was easy to understand why Asala had no love for the Qun. Morgan really didn’t want her old friend to set her new one on fire.

But she was too tired to think any further on it. She found the soap on the stool beside the tub, and started to massage it over her sore body. Dirt and blood came away slowly, and she felt the oily feeling leaving her skin. Forgetting about her newly shorn hair, she over-lathered and got soap in her eyes. As pleasant smelling as it was, it stung just like any other soap, and she scrubbed at her eyes with the wash cloth.

The bath seemed to take forever, but the heat eased the aches in her joints, and the knots in her muscles loosened slightly. She was just hauling herself out of the tub and pulling the provided towel around her shoulders when there was a knock on the door.

“Lady Cadash?” It was Josephine. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was able to find some clothes that might fit. We can launder your traveling clothes as well. Are you decent?”

“Just a moment!” Morgan rushed to the chest at the foot of her bed, finding a sleeping shift they’d provided her. She tugged it hurriedly over her head, and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Opening the door, she smiled up into Josephine’s brown, freckled face. The ambassador was truly beautiful, but had seemed oblivious the few times Morgan had tried to flirt. There was a servant carrying a large empty basket with her as well, and Morgan gestured them both inside.

The servant gave a small curtsy, then gathered all of Morgan’s traveling clothes and armor into the basket. She took all the spares from the pack as well. Morgan had tried to wash some of them in whatever stream they were near, but it had been so cold her fingers had gone numb halfway through.

Josephine, clad in a plain, but fur-lined cloak, gestured two _more_ servants in, both of them putting down two large wooden crates. When Morgan stared, Josephine explained. “Several Dwarven merchants passed through. They said no one was buying dwarf clothes in these parts, so we got these for a very reasonable price. They were quite happy to be rid of them. If anything requires tailoring, please, don’t hesitate to ask, Lady Cadash.”

Morgan had long since given up on asking the ambassador to call her anything else. At least it wasn’t ‘Herald of Andraste’. “Thank you, Lady Montilyet,” she said softly, feeling entirely unworthy of all the crates. When she was unable to say anything else, Josephine dismissed the servants and excused herself, saying that food would be sent within the hour.

The first crate was full of dresses, all full skirts and flowing sleeves. Morgan lifted a lavender one up, a wistful smile pulling at her lips. When she had been small, she had loved dresses, and had worn nothing else. Her mother had been a good seamstress, and made almost all of the young Morgan’s clothes. But this wasn’t the place for pretty dresses.

Digging deeper in the crate, Morgan found a plethora of frilly small clothes as well. Petticoats and bloomers all trimmed with soft lace. Silk underthings were actually quite warm, and she allowed herself the luxury of a pair of silk bloomers over simple cotton smalls. A silk shirt went on, too. The other crate had more simple things, but it took a good deal of digging to find any trousers. And only two pairs ended up fitting her combination of wide hips, big thighs, and short legs.

There were stockings and shoes as well, but the only pair of the latter that fit were a few sizes too big. She ended up dressing in brown wool trousers, and a waist length blue tunic, bordered with classic dwarven geometric patterns. There was a ridiculous fur coat that would be warm, but she wouldn’t have been caught dead in. She stuck her stocking-clad feet into the too-large shoes, and pulled her shawl from her pack. It was one of the few personal possessions that had survived the Conclave explosion.

She felt naked without her belt—the one with multiple pouches and her lock picking kit—so she belted it around her waist before she left the house, pulling her hat down over her ears. It didn’t matter how plainly she dressed, however. Everyone at Haven knew where the ‘Herald’ lived. The whispers followed her all the way down to the fire where Varric’s tent was. Varric was somewhere else, but Morgan paused a moment to warm her hands.

“Lady Herald!” Morgan winced, but turned, a smile plastered across her face. But the expression brightened when she saw who it was. It was Minaeve, the researcher. The elvhen mage was very pretty, with short red hair and dark blue eyes. She was even more freckled than Morgan, but had a duskier skin tone. When first introduced, they had ended up having along discussion on the local wildlife, the elf comparing what she knew with the information Morgan had on fauna in the Free Marches.

“Minaeve, please call me Morgan,” she pleaded as the apprentice came up to the fire.

Minaeve’s smile was shy, and she shook her head. “I couldn’t do that, Lady He—”

“Lady Morgan, then?” Morgan tilted her head, hoping to catch the other woman’s eye.

Minaeve looked up, giving a small smile. “I supposed I could do that.”

Morgan heaved a very real sigh of relief. She liked the elf, and she didn’t want any of their conversations to be muddled by reminders of the weight on her own shoulders. “Did you get the shipment I sent with the Chargers?” she asked. “We fought quite a few bears on our way to the Storm Coast.”

The researcher brightened considerably. “Yes! I’ve never had a whole skull before! The brain cavity is much larger than I anticipated! Was it male, or female?”

“Sorry, I was too busy trying to keep it from eating Varric’s face to look.” Morgan’s face was apologetic.

Minaeve waved a hand. “Oh, that’s fine. Males are usually bigger in mammals, anyway.”

Morgan nudged her with her elbow. “I’ll try to check next time I need ham-string an animal.”

“No! Don’t do anything that could get you hurt!” Her face instantly reddened, and she looked down into the fire. “Forgive me for being so forward, my Lady.”

Morgan _wanted_ to make a face, but Minaeve was probably still used to the circle’s rules, where it was all ‘yes, ser’, ‘no, ser’ to the Templars. “I don’t like fighting, so my whole goal is to usually stay as far away as possible. It’s why I use a bow.”

“Oh. Good.”

At the smile Minaeve shot her way, Morgan felt her cheeks color. Why were there so many pretty people at the end of the world? And she was being silly! Minaeve probably had much more interesting and important thing to think about. “Speaking of bows, I have to see about having a new one made. I’ll be sure to let you know if we find anything interesting on our next trip, alright?”

She left the warmth of the fire, and headed towards Haven’s gates, past the mabari statues. Looking at them, she paused, and looked over her shoulder. She could hear the barking of dogs from the makeshift kennel that had been set up, mostly at her insisting. Deciding that the bow could wait, she trotted back up the steps.

Hinter was laying on a pile of hay in the door of the barn, his stomach obviously full. Morgan was about to call out to him, when a qunari stepped out of the barn, kneeling to pet the big animal. Morgan recognized the broken horns instantly.

“Asala!” she yelled, scrambling over the wooden fence. The dark gray face lifted milky eyes in the direction of the call, recognition quickly followed by a smile. Morgan leaped over the confused Hinter, half tackling the large woman around the waist. Thick, powerful arms wrapped around the dwarf and lifted her into an embrace so tight she gasped.

“Lil’ bit!” Asala’s ears twitched happily, and she nuzzled the top of Morgan’s head, the dwarf’s face pressed into her bosom. “You’re heavier! And your hair!” She set Morgan down to get a better look, running her hands through her hair and down her shoulders.

“Been shooting demons pretty much every day,” Morgan said, eyes glittering happily. “Builds a lot of muscle. So does running away from bears.” She looked up into the familiar face, joying swelling in her chest.

Asala was dark, even for a qunari, her gray skin almost a purple tinge. Scars twisted around her blind eyes, marks left from acid. Her wide, flat nose led to full, heart-shaped lips, painted almost black. Her fluffy, textured hair—that Morgan had always compared to snow—was braided in rows tight to her scalp and hanging down her back, beads and silver charms hanging from the ends. Her armor was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a flowing black robe and purple cloak.

Morgan punched her solidly in the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were at the Conclave?” she scolded.

“I’m not working with the Carta anymore,” Asala retorted. “I didn’t know they were sending _you_! And you…” One could still see the shape of her irises and pupils underneath the fog of blindness, and they flicked downward, to Morgan’s left hand. Though her _eyes_ no longer saw, Asala was far from blind. Being a mage had given her another way to view the world. “You’re so _bright_ , Morgan,” she murmured.

Morgan looked away, balling her left hand into a fist and tucking it into. “Don’t you start with that ‘Herald’ shite,” she muttered, feeling Hinter lean against her legs.

Asala put her hands on Morgan’s shoulders. “I’m not assuming anything, lil’ bit,” she said firmly. “I just know you’ve been given an extraordinary power.”

“Don’t want it,” Morgan muttered petulantly. But she let Asala hug her again, breathing in the scent of ozone that always clung around the storm mage. Hinter licked her pant leg gently, whining until she stroked his neck.

“I know how strong you are, Morgan,” Asala said, whispering so that they wouldn’t be over heard. “If you can fight your own mind, you can fight demons and kick all their fucking asses, alright? Even if you are tiny.”

She let go and brushed a hand over Morgan’s cheek. Morgan was able to smile again. “Don’t start. I already have one giant calling me small.” When Asala blinked curiously, Morgan remembered Bull. She felt a stab of guilt as she decided not to tell Asala about Bull being a Ben-Hassrath agent. “We hired a mercenary company out on the Coast, the Bull’s Chargers.”

“Shit, really?” Asala grinned, looking vaguely nostalgic. “The Valo-Kas did a job with them a couple years ago, in Orlais. I got to blow up a bridge.”

“So you’ve met—wait, you what?!” Morgan stared, watching an impish grin fight its way onto the gray face.

The mage just waved a hand, silver rings catching the bright winter sunlight. “Not important. I’m assuming that the Iron Bull is still company commander, right? Big fucker with horns out to here?” She held out her arms to demonstrate.

Trying not to think of her blind friend cackling as rubble rained down from above was difficult, but somehow, Morgan managed. “Yeah. Bull’s…” She hated keeping things from her friends, but she didn’t want any sort of fight between the two qunari. She’d seen both of them in battle, and didn’t fancy watching them trying to take each other out.

Asala sensed the pause, but guessed at the reason, and waggled her eyebrows. “He’s _something_ , ain’t he?” Morgan was taken off guard and flushed scarlet. Somehow, Asala _knew_ , and cackled, the laugh low, loud, and boisterous. “Oh, you always did have odd taste, lil’ bit.”

“Okay; _not_ happy to see you any more. You can leave,” Morgan muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh, c’mon! When was the last time you had a good tumble? And have you _seen_ how many pretty people there are here?”

“Nope! Leaving now!” Morgan spun on her heel, Hinter following as she stalked away. She had enough trouble _not_ imagining jumping Bull without Asala—who was much more comfortable with her own body, and sex in general—encouraging her. The mage kept laughing as the dwarf left, heading back to her originally planned destination, the smithy.

Though Harritt had given her a few looks, and tried to offer instructions the first time, he’d soon shut up when he saw that she knew what she was about. He had some bad opinions of mages, too, even if he was a good man. She’d heard him comment that he was _glad_ the woman he’d been speaking to had been made tranquil. It had been hard to respect more than his skill with the craft after that.

Her frustration was boiling towards a bad mood, and she wanted to smash some molten metal. She pointed Hinter in the direction of some nugs, and he bounded off, seeming more interested in the chase than the hunt. Morgan was so focused, that she didn’t even notice she was walking through the Charger’s camp near between the—mostly empty—stables and the smithy. But Bull noticed her.

He watched as she hung her shawl, hat, and belt on a hook, and pulled on a leather apron before rolling up her sleeves. She made the motion to pull her hair back, then frowned as the short strands slid through her fingers. He watched her select a rod of iron from the barrel, carrying to a spot by the forge. Stabbing it into the coals, she left it to heat, taking a wire brush to one of the anvils.

The other smiths had gotten used to the dwarf using their space, and greeted her formally. Bull saw her shake off the tension that gathered in her shoulders, finding a pair of leather gloves. They were much too large, so she retrieved a smaller pair from one of the pouches on her belt. For a while, she just stared into the glowing coals of the forge, occasionally using the rake to adjust them over her iron stock.

Bull continued to observe, unnoticed, as she pulled the glowing piece from the flames, turning to the anvil. Lots of people thought you had to raise the hammer up high to get the proper force behind it. But short, swift strikes were what real smiths used. Even under the layers, he saw the muscles of her arms swell and flex as she brought the hammer down, over and over. Her back muscles had to be impressive too, considering how good she was with a heavy long bow.

She didn’t seem to be making anything in particular, just pounding away at the hot metal, and occasionally returning it to the forge. The third time she did this, Bull wandered over. She saw his shadow rather than heard him, and glanced over her shoulder. If her face hadn’t been red from the heat of the forge, he’d have sworn she was blushing.

“How’s it going?” he asked, leaning against one of the wooden saw-horses.

Morgan shook her hair from her eyes, and a smile peaked through her mask. Despite her frustrations, she was genuinely glad to see him. “I figure hammering metal is better than beating up merchants,” she said with a shrug. Bull realized that it wasn’t her pauldrons that made her shoulders looked broad. Under the soft roundness there was strong, hard earned muscle.

“I’m sure your ambassador agrees,” he said with a grin.

She looked him over. He wasn’t wearing his vest. “Aren’t you cold?”

“It was the transfer from the warmer beach,” he said. “Now that I’m used to the cold, I don’t needed it.” He shrugged, and she tried not to watch the way the muscles of his shoulders rolled under the skin.

Morgan turned quickly, pulling the metal from the fire again. She put it against the horn of the anvil, and started to hammer it into a curve, deciding to make some hooks to hang her armor from. She could feel Bull watching her as he worked, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled. His gaze was intense in an odd way, not piercing or sharp but… observant?

“Did you get everything settled with Lady Montilyet?” she asked, deciding she’d finish the hooks later. She shoved the metal into the bucket of water, watching the water sizzle and boil for a brief moment.

“Krem’s talking with her now,” Bull said. “He knows the contract inside and out, and I trust him to negotiate a good price for us.”

“I was thinking we could use your company to help out the soldiers while we’re training up recruits,” Morgan said, putting her gloves away and hanging up the apron. Once the shawl was draped over her shoulders, she tugged her hat on again, loathe to leave the warmth of the forges. “You said you wanted to be my bodyguard; I’m assuming Krem leads the Chargers when you’re doing something else?”

“Yeah, kid’s a brilliant tactician, though if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny everything,” Bull said.

Her eyes crinkled for a moment, and she laughed. They wandered away from the forge. “Can I ask something? It might be personal, so you don’t have to answer.”

“Ask away, Boss.”

“Aclassi is a Tevinter name. How did you end up with a Tevinter lieutenant?”

“Same way most of them ended up with me. They were in trouble, and I offered ‘em a job.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Not really my story to tell, though. He’s a good man. Knows his tactics and strategy and he has your back in a fight.”

He was really starting to like her smile. The real one; the one that made her eyes crinkle up and her cheeks show the hint of a dimple on the left side. “Why, Bull, that was practically a glowing testimonial.”

Bull snorted dismissively, but didn’t bother hiding the quirk at the corner of his mouth. Her eyes followed the scar that came from beneath the patch down to the corner of his mouth, wondering if his scars felt anything like hers. She shook those far too intimate and personal thoughts off with a shiver, drawing her shall tighter.

“It’s not fair, you know,” she mumbled. “You’re from further north than me, and you’re not bothered by this shit weather.”

“Qunari run pretty warm compared to humans and elves. Dwarves seem to get cold easy, but put out a lot of heat.”

Morgan _did_ blush then, and narrowed her eyes at them. “That is disturbingly accurate,” she muttered. She’d been told many times by bed mates that she became a heater when she fell asleep, but she always somehow managed to have icy toes and fingers. Then she was wondering how he knew, not just about her, but about other dwarves. Had he bedded dwarves before? Was that even possible for someone of his… size?

‘ _Maker, Asala’s right. I_ do _need to get laid,’_ she thought bitterly.

Despite her self-consciousness, she enjoyed sex a great deal, with men and women. Women were just easier. It wasn’t like she hadn’t gotten a few looks and polite flirting at Haven. People were already claiming to have slept with the Herald—Josephine had been so embarrassed when she brought up the rumors that it had been hard to keep from laughing—so why shouldn’t one or two of them be telling the truth?

‘ _Right, you’d just have to get out of your own head long enough.’_

 _That_ was the difficult bit. If she was all wound up in worry and anxiety, she’d never be able to relax enough to have a good time. And that was the whole point, right? She made a promise to _try_ to go the Singing Maiden that night. She didn’t have to do anything, just show up.

Realizing that Bull was still walking with her, she started talking again. “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to find a dwarven bow up here? Or even the plans for one?”

“Yeah, that human bow you had is as good as a long bow on you.”

She made a face at him. “And it’d look like a toy on you,” she said. “I can pull them just fine, but it doesn’t have the same power, so I don’t do as much damage.” Her full bottom lip stuck out in a real pout, perfect for nibbling if one were so inclined.

“Why do I have a feeling you could bench-press a Templar in full armor?” Bull said, waggling his eyebrows.

Morgan cackled. “Oh, that would be a sight,” she giggled. “I think Hawke did that in the Tale of the Champion.”

“Have you _seen_ the drawings of her? She’s ripped.”

“Yeah.” Morgan gave a sigh, a slightly dreamy quality to her smile. “I have.” At his snort she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “But pictures aren’t always right. Have you seen some of the depictions of Cassandra? Some of the armor makes no feasible sense. Would knock all the force right into the sternum. And long hair? All flowing in the wind during battle? Hah!”

“You should try going around sleeveless sometime, Boss,” Bull said as they mounted the steps and went through Haven’s gate. “If their reaction to me is any indication, I can think of a few serving girls that might be interested.”

“I’m not going to freeze my arms off to get laid,” Morgan said with false disdain.

“Well what about that red-headed elf? She seems to like you already.”

Something sharp flared in Morgan’s eyes, but it faded quickly. “Are you following me around?” she said.

“No, I was getting a drink,” he said, pretending to be hurt. “Saw her watching you when you left. Had this goofy smile on her face and her ears were pink.”

“What?! I-I mean… Are you sure?” Morgan felt her own ears getting warm, thinking about Minaeve being attracted to her.

Bull grinned. “Pretty sure,” he said. Morgan’s mask was nowhere to be seen, lost to the blush and the small glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “She’s really cute, isn’t she?” he prodded.

Morgan was not about to deny that. “Yeah,” she mumbled, refusing to look up until her face stopped burning.

“Just passing along information. That is my job, after all.” He sounded so smug she wanted to punch him.

She was able school her face and shoot him a sharp, if playful look. “Your job is trying to get me laid?”

“Hey, a happy boss means happy employees,” he said sagely.

Morgan had to agree with that. Working for the Carta, if your boss wasn’t happy, you weren’t going to be happy. Though she would _hope_ that her lack of a sex life wouldn’t affect her judgment and treatment of those she worked with. They passed a cluster of mages speaking together, and was reminded of Asala.

“Bull, have you ever worked with a group called the Valo-Kas?” she asked.

“Mostly Tal-Vashoth mercs, right? Yeah, in Orlais a little while back. Why?”

“Well, I know one of them.” Morgan found herself fumbling for words, her ability to form a mask crumbling. “She’s been my friend for a while, back when the Valo-Kas was in the Free Marches. She’s a mage, and she’s… she’s _here._ ” She looked up at Bull, and found his face unreadable. “Look, it’s not going to be a problem is it? I know mages weird you out and you’ve probably faced some nasty Tal-Vashoth. But Asala is Vashoth, and—”

Bull held up a hand and she went quiet. They stopped walking and faced each other. “Boss, I’ve not no problem working with whoever you bring in, as long as they're not a threat to you. And as far as they’re concerned, I’m Tal-Vashoth, too. I might have issues with Tal-Vashoth on principal, but as long as she doesn’t start shit, I won’t either.”

Morgan’s shoulders sagged slightly. “She won’t. Just… don’t let anyone tell her you’re Ben-Hassrath,” she murmured. “Her parents were mages under the Qun.” She hoped that was enough explanation. As much as she liked Bull, she would put Asala before him if it came down to it. She really didn’t want to, but she would.

Bull winced visibly. For the most part, he never understood how people left the Qun, turning their back on everything and risking their sanity for some strange concept of freedom. Mages—Sarebaas—were another matter. He would fight them no matter what, and still disliked them for what they’d done. But their reason was easier to understand.

“Won’t be a problem, Boss.” He was glad to see her visibly relax. “You’re talking about Adaar, right? The creepy blind one that still sees with magic or something?”

“She does tend to make an impression, doesn’t she?” Even before going blind and losing most of one horn and half of the other, the Vashoth woman had been loud and unapologetic for who she was, reveling in her magic and her power. Despite her wildness, Morgan had never witnessed a mage with more control, except perhaps Sh’vara.

“She certainly made an _impression_ with Dalish,” Bull muttered under his breath.

Morgan snorted and covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smile. Some of her anxiety was waning. If Bull’s origins stayed secret, she could see him and Asala getting along famously. “She told me she blew up a bridge?”

“With _lightning_!” Bull said, giving an involuntary shudder at the memory.

“She _does_ seem to favor storm magic, doesn’t she?” Morgan said.

“You worked with her before, Boss?”

She nodded. “Yeah. The Carta needed some especially intimidating muscle for a collection job that I was heading. Hired the Valo-Kas.”

“Wait, so they had you, this cute little dwarf with a smile on her face, backed by a full company of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries?” There was laughter in his eyes, a grin spreading across his face. Maker, he had a glorious smile.

Morgan’s smile was a bit crooked. “Exactly. I was as polite as could be. Smiled and asked nicely for the money we were owed. A collection had never gone so well. At least until their _own_ muscle showed up.”

Bull nodded, understanding. “When a job seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“I didn’t go on combat jobs much. I’m better at making people give us their money and making them think we're doing them a favor by taking it.”

“With a face like yours, that had to be easy,” Bull said, winking.

Despite feeling her cheeks and ears redden slightly at the compliment, Morgan kept smiling. “Just imagine if I’d used my tits, too.” She was fine making jokes about her body, and she was finding that she was comfortable doing it around Bull.

“You could have been running the whole clan in weeks,” Bull said, nodding sagely, and Morgan cackled.

“Unfortunately a fair number of the underbosses preferred the company of men.”

Bull waved a dismissive hand. “Hey, nice tits are nice tits. They can still appreciate them.”

“That’s only ‘cause they don’t have to wear ‘em every day.”

He snorted. “Got me there. Don’t know how you don’t tip over more, Boss.” He was really starting to like her laugh. It wasn’t what most people would call pretty. It was loud and sharp boisterous, nearly a cackle. But when she laughed, he got a glimpse under the mask.

They were passing back towards what Morgan was staring to call the Herald’s House, and found Hinter sitting in front of the door. He barked and wagged his tail when he saw them coming. He greeted Bull happily, jumping up and planting his big paws on the qunari’s stomach. Bull tousled his ears and the dog got down, looking at Morgan and then scratching at the door. Whatever energy the bath had given her was all but spent, and the idea of sleeping in a real bed was suddenly too tempting to ignore.

“I’m gonna sleep before they need me for important things,” she said with a sigh, opening the door. Hinter ran inside and jumped onto the bed. “See you later, Bull.”

“Nice talking with you, Boss.”

It was only after laying down that Morgan realized she'd forgotten to see about a bow.

 

000

 

Mercifully, there were no dreams, or at least nothing Morgan remembered when she woke, Hinter’s back against her chest and her arm around him. He was so warm, the fire had nearly gone out and she hadn’t noticed. Kicking off the wool blankets, she rubbed at her eyes as she walked over to the harth, tossing in a few logs and sitting down to watch them catch. She’d stripped down to nothing and put on her sleeping shirt, which was really just an oversized human tunic with the sleeves cut to hang at her elbows.

She pulled the sleeve up and prodded at the scab on her arm. There was a bruise around it to, blooming out in dark purple and blues. The crackling of renewed flames filled the house, Morgan’s vision blurring as she stared into the coals. Warmth wrapped around her front, the hard floor beneath her going unnoticed. It was so nice to just relax in the quiet, no one asking anything of her, no one trying to kill her.

Hinter left the bed with a grumbling huff, dragging a blanket with him as he walked over to her. Smiling, she kissed the top of his head and took the blanket from him, wrapping it around her shoulders. He settled behind her, his body curved and legs on either side of her. She leaned back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Half turning, she stroked her palm down his neck and side, feeling the bumps of his ribs.

He was still so skinny, but she would see that changed. There weren’t many rabbits this high up in the mountains, but there were plenty of nugs. Nug wasn’t Morgan’s favorite food, but she would eat it if she had too. She would hunt up all the nugs in the Frostbacks for Hinter. He was so good, and he’d chosen her.

Tears welled without warning, blurring her vision before they overflowed and ran down her cheeks. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop, and she hunched over the dog, shoulders shaking as she sobbed. He thrashed for a moment, trying to sit up. Morgan hiccuped as he strained to lick her face, sniffing and whining in concern. It just made her cry harder. What had she done to deserve his loyalty? To deserve the reverence and respect everyone showed her?

She was nothing, nobody, worthless. Nothing she had done in life had ever been good enough. It was easier not to try rather than risk the consequences of failure. The sentiment was stupid and she _knew_ it. But years of being told that no matter how hard she tried it would never be enough kept that fear looming in her mind. She curled into a ball against Hinter, hiding her face in his side. He seemed to being trying to curl around her more, and she scratched him behind the ear.

“Such a good boy,” she murmured thickly, sniffling. His tail thumped the floor, uncaring of the tears and snot in his fur. Dogs were so good. If Morgan could have had her way, she’d have lived far away from people with just a herd of dogs and cats and any animal that would stay and accept her affection. But that was a far off, distant dream. She’d be lucky to survive closing the Breach. Attempting it on her own had apparently nearly killed her.

 

000

 

Bull was cleaning his ax, picking bits of dried flesh and animal fur from the blade before he sharpened it. He felt the eyes on him from a ways off, but didn’t hear anyone until a pair of bare, dark brown feet appeared on the ground in front of him. Lifting his eyes, he was met by Sh’vara’s sharp gaze. They had the same tattoos as Dalish, but they were styled a bit differently, probably because the two elves came from different regions.

“Sh’vara, right?” Bull said jovially, putting down his ax and offering a hand.

They nodded, squeezing his hand tightly in a brief shake. “I want to ask about Morgan,” they said firmly, wasting no time with pleasantries.

“You’re asking me? Don’t you know her better?”

“Yes, but I haven’t been around the past few weeks while she’s been thrown into this mess of stupid shems calling her the next messiah.” There was a hardness to them, gaze not softening, watching his face intently.

“Fair point,” Bull agreed. “What do you want to know?”

Sh’vara seemed to balk slightly, gaze sliding away. They looked like they were holding something back, fighting with themselves. “She’s not… She’s not _hurting_ herself, is she?” The sharpness was gone from their voice, replaced with a vulnerable worry.

Morgan’s friend asking about self-harm meant that it had probably happened in the past; Bull filed the information away for later. He answered honestly. “Not that I’ve seen. But we’re usually running around in armor, so…”

“She’d… Look, you can’t say anything about this to anyone, qunari.” Worry and intense protectiveness warred on their dark face, jaw tight and shoulders tense.

Bull let his mask drop, holding nothing back. “I signed up as her bodyguard. I protect her. That would include from herself, if necessary. I assume you know signs I should look for if she’s hiding it?” Letting the ‘Herald’ spiral down into self-destructive habits wasn’t an option, not when so many depended on her. Not when she had so much to do.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Sh’vara nodded, crossing their legs and sitting down in front of Bull. “You seem like a smart sort, so I assume you can read her through that… that mask, yes? Enough to know when she’s upset?” Bull nodded. “She’s good at hiding it, but she’ll smile too much, laugh differently. When she’s hurting, her laugh is pretty; sounds real to people that don’t know her. She’ll be like that, and… and vanish for a while by herself. She’ll come back all smiles, but she’ll be extra helpful, like she’s trying to make up for something. I know she’s helpful and eager to please all the time, but, it’s different if she’s…” They scrubbed a hand over their face. “Has she?”

Bull shook his head. “She’s not in the best shape, but she hasn’t been doing anything like that.”

The relief was visible on Sh’vara’s face, and their shoulders sagged. “Thank the Creators,” they breathed. “She’d also be playing with a little silver knife, using it to pick her nails or to cut split ends from her hair. Just having it in her hand but not doing anything particularly productive with it.”

“None of that either.” Another sigh of relief. “Hey, I gotta ask. Should I call you she? He? They?”

The surprise turned to a hesitant smile. “Either is fine, but it varies day to day. ‘They’ works best.” She eyed him curiously. “I’ve heard the Qun is… more accepting of… people like me.”

“In a way. They believe everyone has a role, and most people higher up assign gender to those roles. A qunari given the job of Tamassran is always considered female.”

Sh’vara made a face. “Eh.”

“Yeah, but if someone feels different, they’re never made to feel wrong about it. Everyone has a place, something to give that benefits the whole.”

“Sometimes your people almost make sense to me.” They considered him, and for a moment he almost thought she was going to ask if he was still part of the Qun. He was ready with a lie, but the question never came. Sh’vara stood. “I’m going to stay here. Shems have no idea what they’re doing, and there’s a woman around thinking she can cure infection by _bleeding_ people. Not having that shit. You look after Morgan, Iron Bull, or I swear by the Dread Wolf you will die slow.”

Bull believed them, too. They may have been a healer, but knowledge of how the body worked gave a person thousands of ways to inflict pain and death. Healing magic could be used just as easily to kill if a person knew how.

 

000

 

Despite it being late in the day, Morgan suffered through several meetings at the War Table. While the rogue Templars and apostates were still at large beyond the crossroads, there was no way they’d be able to get the horses they needed through. They would have to fight their way through to Dennet, the horse master, and then secure passage back. Horses fit for use by military were worth their weight in gold, and for the starving, it was a lot of good meat.

“We should clear the road first,” Morgan said. “He’ll be more likely to give us what we want if we show that we’re willing to put out the effort to protect his horses.”

Cullen nodded. “Cadash is right.” She was glad he just used her name, even if it was the Carta one. “Dennet takes his horses as seriously as any dog Lord would take their mabari. He won’t care who you are; if you can’t take care of his beasts then he won’t deal with you. Providing safe passage will go a long way.” He considered the map carefully. “I think we can send some soldiers with you.”

Instantly, Morgan was frowning. Soldiers were loud and easy to find. She functioned better when she could move quickly, sniping from the shadows. “I’d much rather do as we’ve been doing. Just me and a small group. Easier to move that way.”

The former knight-captain shook his head. “No. It was a mistake to send you to the coast like that. Now that word of you is spreading, you need more protection. We can’t risk your life.”

Something in his words prickled her. “What, and fighting demons and closing Rifts isn’t a risk?”

“Of course it is!” He seemed genuinely worried. “And closing the Rifts would be much easier if you had some of our soldiers with you.”

“Soldiers draw quite a lot of attention, Cullen,” Leliana pointed out. “And from what I’ve heard, Miss Cadash is quite adept at staying out of sight.” Morgan met her eyes and smiled shyly at the praise. “There are also rumors of a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands that I would like to verify.” Something dark crossed her face. “All the Wardens have vanished; this one may know why.”

Morgan had always had a great respect for Wardens, and for a moment she remembered the fear during the last Blight. She had been small, but there had been more than enough to make a lasting impression on her memory. Getting one on their side would be more than useful.

“I still say the Herald should take at least as squad with her,” Cullen pressed.

She grit her teeth. Cullen meant well, but soldiers and spies fought very differently. “I’ll take Cassandra and Bull with me,” she said, nodding at the Seeker. “What I can’t take out from a distance, they can just chop to pieces. I was also thinking of taking Enchanter Vivienne with us the next time we go out. If we’re going to be dealing with Templars and apostates, we would benefit greatly from her experience.”

Cullen looked to Cassandra. “You can’t agree with this.”

“As reassuring as it is to have an army at your back, this is not the time for armies, Cullen,” Cassandra said. “People are scared. We don’t need a third group charging into this mess with swords, adding to the chaos. A small covert group would do the work better.” She offered a small smile to Morgan. “And besides, Morgan had more than proved her abilities for staying alive, despite the odds. The qunari’s skill is also… impressive.”

Warmth swelled in Morgan’s chest, and a smile broke through. Having a warrior as accomplished as Cassandra praise her fighting ability was more than Morgan could have ever hoped for. And not being called ‘Herald’ was a wonderful relief. Despite the antagonistic start, Morgan liked Cassandra, and would like to be friends with the woman.

Cullen ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Very well. Just keep her safe.” The look he gave Morgan made her deeply uncomfortable, and she looked away.

Cassandra just nodded. “She will be in good hands.”

Morgan couldn’t get out of the War Room fast enough. She had enough weight on her shoulders without adding a political component. She was equally glad she wouldn’t have to worry about commanding troops. Hinter was waiting outside the door, and fell into step beside her. She saw Varric at the end of the hall, and he waved to her.

“Morgan, hey.” He started walking with her as well, offering Hinter a scratch behind the ear. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” They passed a pair of Chantry sisters on the way out.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak for less than _two_ minutes, Varric,” she said with a grin. He smiled at her, and she had to fight not to look away bashfully. Varric was also very nice to look at, and there was no hiding the definition of his arms. “But sure. What is it?”

“So you’re taking the Bull with you when you leave again?”

Morgan nodded. “Yes. Bull, Cassandra, Lady Vivienne, I think. Why? Did you want to come?” She knew Varric hated being out in the wilderness and the wet and the cold and… just about any kind of weather.

Varric held up a hand. “No, I thank you for the opportunity, your worshipfulness, but I’ll politely decline.” Varric mocked titles so much that it didn’t bother Morgan when he used them with her. It was usually in jest, anyways. “You _do_ remember that Bull said he was a spy for the Qun, right?”

“He might have mentioned that, yes.”

He stopped walking, face serious. “You’re from the Free Marches, you have to have heard about what happened in Kirkwall.”

“Your book saw to the fact that everyone, Marcher or not, knows about it.” She was teasing, but it fell away quickly. She was sharp enough to understand what the other dwarf was getting at. “You don’t trust Bull.”

“No. And you shouldn’t either. Look, I know you weren’t there, but—” He seemed to be struggling with something, and gave a sigh of frustration. “Just, keep an eye out, okay? You’re too important to get squashed if he steps wrong.” He offered an awkward smile.

She surprised him with a smile he rarely saw, a real one that brightened her eyes and dimpled her left cheek. “Thank you, Varric.” She meant every word. “I _do_ have a bit of experience with people trying to step on me, though. I’ve found most people don’t like stepping on pointy things.”

Varric was and excellent liar, and that meant he was good and finding lies in other people. Despite her genuine smile and words, there was always a lie to her. She was always putting up a front, showing people a mask. He’d seen under it once or twice. Under all her snark and self-depreciating jokes, she was so very soft, and so very scared. Hawke hadn’t been as soft, but she also hadn’t wanted to be a smuggler or a hero or any of the things life had made her.

“Alright, enough mush, go to bed, your Heraldship.” He waved her off, sticking his thumbs into the sash at is waist.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard today.” She watched him go, eyes drawn unconsciously to the spread of his shoulders. Quickly shaking her head, she turned on her heel, heading towards the tavern. She needed a drink, or several, before bed. Hopefully all the pretty people had all gone off with each other, and she could drink without flustering thoughts intruding.

 


	6. Templars in the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People die. Morgan has more issues than she originally thought. Some fluff at the end.

 

Templars in the West:

 

Morgan never thought she would be so glad to feel the wilderness spread out before her. She didn’t care that it was cold, or that her hip was its usual level of sore. The air wasn’t as thin as it was in Haven, full of the smells of pine and earth; crisp and clear. The scent of smoke or people was nowhere to be found, and she couldn’t stop smiling. It was also good to be away from Haven, and the stares of the people.

She glanced back at Vivienne. The woman was dressed for the elements and for travel, but seemed just as elegant and poised as ever, her hips swaying as she walked. Madame de Fer really was gorgeous. But she was so intimidating, and had such differing opinions of mages, that Morgan had never really entertained any fantasies of her. Vivienne seemed more than confident in her fighting abilities—she was, after all, a First Enchanter—and Morgan wondered what type of magic she favored. Judging by the way she’d dealt with the Marquis at the manor, probably ice.

Her helmet, an Orliesan hennin, had decidedly qunari-like horns, and made her look even more intimidating and grand. Bull seemed to have noticed, too, and would occasionally toss a curious look her way. If she noticed, she gave no indication, picking her way nimbly over the ground, never once stumbling or wavering.

The staff she carried was a thing of beauty, all pale polished wood and silverite, wrapped in the pale blue leather of deepstalkers. Morgan found herself almost hoping for a Rift, just to see what the mage could do. Hinter also seemed particularly enamored, despite Vivienne showing him only the briefest attention. He wandered between her and Morgan, occasionally whining at the mage for attention.

Morgan was jolted out of her enjoyment of the walk by the cool, refined tone. “My dear, this beast of yours is in desperate need of a bath.” Hinter huffed, as delicately offended as any well-bred lapdog.

When she realized that Vivienne was actually talking to her, Morgan blinked. “Oh, yes, he probably does. I did _try_ the night before we left. But I think I’d need Bull or someone else sizeable to hold the dog in the water while I scrubbed. I’m also not going to try to give him a bath out here.”

“Perhaps you could float chunks of something in the water? Does he eat vegatables?” Vivienne was regarding Hinter more seriously now, using the same looked that had sized Morgan up when they’d first met.

“He’ll eat anything,” Morgan said.

“That could work then. And if he’s to be at your side, my dear, he needs to be properly outfitted.” She looked at Morgan and indicated the metal on her bracers. “It should match yours as well. He must look fierce and noble. Though that may be difficult.” For all his strength, Hinter’s mixed blood made him a bit odd looking, with big thick shoulders and a long, lanky body.

“Whatever it is, it should be _spiked_ ,” Bull said adamantly. “Like dragon spines down his back.”

“But then he’d be harder to cuddle,” Morgan pointed out. “And he likes to jump on everyone. Except Lady Vivienne.”

“He just has to be made to understand that it simply isn’t allowed,” the mage said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“You’d have made an excellent trainer in another life, Lady Vivienne,” Morgan said, “if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Not at all, darling.” The smile she gave was cool, but not unwelcoming. “It takes a great deal of skill train a proper war dog to satisfaction. It’s an honorable trade.” The respect for more ‘menial’ work in someone so steeped in high society was surprising, but not unpleasantly so. Morgan smiled, and the group fell back into a comfortable silence. It lasted a few more hours before they crested the hill and practically fell into a camp of apostates and hired swords.

Instantly, Morgan smashed as smoke bomb and darted to the shadows, Hinter following at her heels. As she flanked around to higher ground, she got to see Vivienne at work for the first time. Spinning her staff with a grace that would have made Rivani acrobat troupes green with envy, she threw frost at her enemies, encasing them in ice for Bull and Cassandra to shatter.

Morgan lit a pitch-dipped arrow and fired it into a mage's grimoire, setting the pages aflame. As the apostate struggled to put out the fire, Vivienne struck from behind, stabbing her staff blade into their unguarded back and casting ice _inside_. She and Solas couldn’t have been more different, and Morgan was quite sure that Sh’vara would have been enraptured.

Some of the Mercenaries tried to flee, but they fell to an ice trap laid at the beginning of the fight. Hinter hadn’t even had to lift a paw. With a small huffing bark, he followed Morgan out of the trees as she unstrung her borrowed bow. Harding, the dwarven scout, had heard that the Herald had lost her bow, and had sent one of her own spares. Upon receiving the gift, Morgan had asked that Josephine send whatever counted for luxuries out with the next scouting party Harding led.

Cassandra and Bull were lightly splattered with blood, and Vivienne was immaculate as ever. Bull was looking at her with respect, and something akin to awe. “You know, Viv, you’re not bad with that staff.”

Vivienne paused in her inspection of her staff, eyes locking with Bull’s. “You will address me as Enchanter Vivienne, Court Mage to the Empire of Orlais, or Madame de Fer. _Not_ ‘Viv’.” Her voice was as cold as her magic, and Bull looked, for lack of a better word, _cowed._ Morgan found herself hoping that she herself hadn’t offended by using ‘Lady Vivienne’.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat and shifted his feet nervously. “Right, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

She paused, head tilted slightly as she considered his words. “Hmm.” She smiled aprovingly. “Yes, ‘ma’am’ works, as well.”

It took all Morgan had not to burst out laughing. To see the giant of a man with his ax almost as big as Morgan herself, reprimanded by the tall, refined circle mage was truly a thing of beauty.

They planned to go through the Crossroads, clearing the West Road of Templars that had taken Fort Connor, and apostates rumored to have a camp in Witchwood. Both groups had proved themselves beyond reasoning, and Morgan had stopped connecting them to the actual Mage Rebellion, led by the former Grand Enchanter Fiona. She could still remember the worry painted across the brown face and shining warily in the pale green eyes. Morgan knew she’d have to decide to approach one group or the other soon.

Or rather, tell the others of the decision she had _already_ made. While there was indeed something strange going on with the Templars, the Mages were more vulnerable. Morgan scrubbed a hand over her face.

True to her word, Cassandra had helped trim her hair with a pair of sharp, silver scissors. It was shorter than she'd had it in years, just enough to keep out of her eyes with some pins. She missed being able to braid it and pin it up neatly, but this was better. Much harder to grab and requiring nowhere near as much washing.

By going through the Crossroads, they planned to take the West Road to Fort Connor, and old, broken down fortress. There was a base of Templars there, but reports pointed to a spot further west, near a broken bridge by the river. The main base of apostates was located in Witchwood, the foggy forest that lead to Redcliffe road. Morgan’s quiver was full near to bursting, and she had every intention of staying back with Vivienne, and letting Cassandra and Bull do the bloodier work.

In the fortnight before they left Haven again, she had commissioned a wool coat for Hinter, with thick leather loop for grabbing and holding if necessary. Morgan had also been working on commands with him, like standing at her back and facing away, forming a rear guard. He was also beginning to understand commands to flank, Morgan’s training guided by an old shepherd that had trained his dogs to keep the sheep from wandering. Her pack was heaver with rations for him, and she didn’t care at all.

While attentive to the wildlife around him, Hinter never gave chase to any of the rabbits or fennecs that they passed, always looking up to Morgan. While in possible enemy territory, she kept him at her side. She wouldn’t risk him falling to an arrow of some terrified refugee fearing an attack. At least he looked like he belonged to someone now. She had made the collar herself, and stamped his name into a small bronze plate that was riveted to the leather. She had given it a matte finish so that it would not catch the light. While leather working was _not_ her strong suit, she was very proud of the finished product.

Her eyes swept the others. Bull had painted some kind of black paste onto his right arm, shoulder, and pectoral, the sweeping geometric patterns standing out against his skin. Morgan had a vague memory of Asala doing something similar, just with very different patterns. She also remembered being told that whatever the stuff was, it was poisonous to non-qunari.

He had added a bracer and pauldron to his left side, as well as some sort of leather wrap hanging from his belt, with a larger, more organized assortment of daggers. Morgan wasn't sure what he was going to use them for, but it certainly made him even more intimidating. That was probably half the point, anyway. Oddly enough, it made Morgan smile. While being part of a Carta clan had made her no stranger to death, killing was new to her, frightened her. Bull took _joy_ from it, reveling in his victory, proving his strength against his enemies.

That sort of thing should have scared her, warned her off. But to be able to take joy in such painful things, to be able to live and laugh despite all that blood and death, was strangely admirable. From a very young age, Morgan had searched for joy in every small thing. Seeing someone feeding a stray dog, a child jumping joyfully in a puddle, a bright bird perched in a bare tree, like a little flash of color. There were so many small moments of joy, and if she focused on them, it was easier to ignore the sadness that always seemed to be waiting for her.

Bull… He lived with everything he had, in every moment, no matter what he was doing. It took strength to do that, especially if he’d been through all the things that Morgan suspected. While she had sold lyrium to Tevinters—maybe Magisters, maybe not—neither she nor her clan had ever sold to anyone or anything related to the conflict in Seheron. It was too much of a mess, too risky. Selling to one side would just have the other pissed at you, and selling to both was an excellent way to end up dead.

To be in the middle of that, to be at _war_ , it was something she was only just starting to be able to imagine. And with all that in his past, it was a miracle that Bull could smile at all. Strength like that was admirable, and just made her like him more. He also probably got a kick out of making people scared of him, and confusing them when he was suddenly smiling and buying them a drink.

As they traveled, the only other enemies they encountered were a pair of nesting ravens that squawked angrily as the group beneath, and a squirrel they scared into a dropping a nut as it scampered up a tree. It chattered what Morgan could only assume were animal curses, and she giggled softly when Hinter barked back.

After a while, Morgan found Vivienne walking at her side, matching her long, fluid stride to Morgan’s shorter one. Nervousness prickled the dwarf; it was like being stared at by a teacher when you’d done something wrong. “My dear, are you alright?”

It took Morgan a moment to process the words, and she looked up, face guarded. “I’m sorry?”

“You seem to be taking very well to all this, but it can’t be easy to hoist such weight on your shoulders.” Her voice had lost its cool edge, and for a brief moment, Morgan was reminded of her mother. When she met the strange stormy eyes, she found real concern there. At least it seemed real. Orlesians playing the Game were just as good at lying and pretending as the best Carta spy. And they played differently, had different motivations.

She gave a non-committal shrug, and looked away. “People need the Herald of Andraste,” she said. “I _can_ close the Rifts, so if it gives them hope to call me that, then that’s what I’ll be.” She could feel the Enchanter’s eyes on her, sharp, piercing, and missing nothing.

“While that is indeed noble,” Vivienne said, “you cannot expect everyone to believe that these events have not shaken you. I’ve heard that you are Andrastian?”

Another shrug. “I believe in the teachings of Andraste,” she said. “I…” For a moment she paused, wondering if her words would be used against her, and changed her reply slightly. “I disagree with the Chantry about some things, but yes, I am Andrastian.”

“A very diplomatic answer,” Vivienne, her slight smile pointing towards approval. She sighed then, and Morgan marveled and how well each action and move was executed. The mage’s every motion was clean and elegant, without even the slightest trace of awkwardness. “The Chantry is full of people, and people are inherently flawed.”

Morgan bit her tongue against a sharp response. ‘Flawed’ didn’t even begin to cover the abuses Mages were subjected to. At first, it had boggled Morgan’s mind that Vivienne would want to return to the circles. But then she thought about her friend that had been taken to the circle in Oswick, at only nine years old. Vivienne had probably been taken from her family as well, and her attitude was a product of her upbringing under the close watch of the Chantry and Templars.

“We need mages in the Chantry,” Morgan finally said.

There was a distinct pause, and, glancing over, Morgan actually saw _surprise_ painted across the high cheekbones and full lips. The expression quickly melted into a calculating smile. “Oh?”

Morgan chose her words carefully. “So many of the Templars have twisted Andraste’s teachings in order to _subjugate_ mages, when they should be protecting them. They don’t treat them as people, but like walking, talking bombs. Yes, I _know_ mages can be dangerous, but who knows those dangers better than a mage herself? Templars may be necessary, but they got out of hand.” She had a great deal more to say about the Templars, but stopped there, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Many would say that _mages_ got out of hand.” Vivienne was _needling_ her now, trying to pull out information, learn her way of thinking.

“ _One_ mage,” Morgan corrected. “ _One_ mage did something unforgivable. But _you_ should not be judged by _their_ actions. They chose the _worst_ possible time to do it, but I believe that many had good reason to rebel.”

Vivienne considered the dwarf carefully. While Morgan's face gave the appearance of innocence and naiveté, she was far from it. Her mind was sharp, and she knew how to choose her words. “Do you want to reinstate the Circle of Magi?”

Morgan _knew_ her answer would be telling, and every word she spoke was helping the mage form an opinion of her. Despite disagreeing with the Enchanter, Morgan respected her, and _definitely_ didn’t want to be on her bad side. “Maybe. Not like it was. Before, the Chantry was so concerned with mages being corrupted, they failed to look at the Templars.”

The older woman gave a nod that could have been either approving or dismissive, and Morgan found it incredibly disconcerting how difficult she found it to read Vivienne. Maybe Bull could share some Ben-Hassrath pointers.

 

000

 

The Crossroads were busier than the last time, the main walkways packed with merchant carts, shouts filling the air as the owners called out their wares and prices to anyone passing by. Though they were on a mission, Morgan still found herself slowing when they passed a cart with baskets full of yarn. Some skeins were undyed, while others were saturated with color, from deep, earthy tones to bright ones perfect for a baby’s blanket.

As she pulled off her glove—always the right one when they were traveling—and ran her fingertips over the yarn, Bull caught the soft, small smile. She took such joy in making things, and had managed to churn out several hats and sets of gloves during their weeks in Haven. She’d made herself a cowl, too, in a deep purple that made her eyes look even greener. He watched her pluck up some red with bits of yellow thread twisted in, and when he raised a brow, she grinned sheepishly as she paid the merchant.

“For Varric,” she explained, stowing the yarn in her pack. “He’s always complaining about the cold, so I’m going to make him a hat to suit his personality.”

“He seemed awfully gray and gloomy last time,” Bull pointed out.

“That’s just because he doesn’t like rain. Or snow, or…” She snickered. “Or being outside really. He's much brighter back at Haven, or at least when it's dry. He’s a city boy, through and through.”

“Didn’t you grow up in the city?”

“Didn’t you grow up in a place where shirts are never necessary?”

He snorted. “I’m _still_ not wearing a shirt.”

“Well…” She huffed, and made a face at him, and he laughed. Morgan really did like his laugh; warm and loud and rough. She shrugged. “I always liked the forest. I learned to sit still early on, because I’d get to see more animals that way.”

“What? Like those fairy tales of song birds and squirrels helping princesses bakes pies in the woods?” He was picturing more of a small girl in a dirty dress and muddy shoes, all scraped knees and elbows, with leaves in her hair.

“Hah!” She shook her head, still smiling. “People kept saying I should have been born a boy, for as dirty as I got.” Bull rolled his eyes, and Cassandra snorted ahead of them. Now both Morgan and Bull were imagining a young Cassandra thoroughly trouncing the boys in stick sword fights. It was a glorious image.

 

000

 

The West Road was a mess. Houses burned, filling the air with smoke and the clash of fights. Morgan knew from their first trek through the Hinterlands, that trying to clear the road itself wasn’t feasible. They had to take the Templars’ and Apostates’ main camps in order to make any sort of difference.

So they skirted the open territory, sticking close to the sloping rock face and trees. Morgan would drop a smoke bomb when they had to cross open territory, Vivienne doing something with magic and warping to a location several yards ahead. Bull and Cassandra did an admirable job of moving quietly in armor. Morgan’s chain mail was made of light metal, but even it started to weigh on her after a while. Wearing garments made of steel and thick leather took considerable endurance.

As they neared the river, around the bend and past Fort Connor, they found pitched tents and more Templars. They were cleaning their weapons and eating, readying for another fight. As one wandered off towards the trees to relive himself, Morgan melted into the foliage, nodding to Cassandra before she vanished.

She and Hinter crept after him, and a few deliberate hand signals sent the dog in a wide arc, intending to come around from the other side. The Templar took his stance in front of a tree. It was a pity his need for privacy would be the end of him. Hinter broke out of the brush, barking loudly. Swearing and trying to right himself, the Templar swung away from where Morgan was waiting.

Her arrow hit him in the back, driving the air from his lungs. He choked on his scream, making only a sharp squeak as Hinter’s jaws closed over his throat. The crack and crunch as the powerful animal broke his neck still made Morgan’s stomach lurch. But she shoved it down, continuing on her path to put her at the back of the camp, ordering Hinter back to the others. Bull, Cassandra, and he would drive them right into Morgan’s arrows and Vivienne’s ice.

Vivienne gave Morgan a grim smile as the dwarf appeared at her side, arrow already nocked. “Watch yourself, my dear,” she murmured, hearing Bull’s roar and Hinter’s baying. The Templars called alarms, but there was nothing they could do. Some stood and fought, others ran, trying to draw their weapons and ready themselves, or perhaps return to the main camp on the river.

Morgan shot as one tried to put on his helmet, the head catching the wing of the helm and sending it tumbling away. Another arrow went through his eye. The other was heading straight for the ice trap Vivienne had laid. Then Morgan felt a stab of terror; Hinter was following, intent on his prey. Her arrow went wide as she had to duck a shot from a Templar archer, and she saw Hinter leap, and screamed.

Ice spikes burst from the ground, the Templar skewered among them. “Never fear, darling,” Vivienne soothed. Hinter leaped free of the trap without a scratch, the warm light of fire magic fading from around him. “He’s a valuable ally.” Morgan promised herself to find the finest cashmere yarn and make Vivienne anything her heart desired.

It was a short, brutal affair, a warm-up to the larger conflict awaiting them. Adrenaline hummed through Morgan, eyes turning to the broken bridge and the path that led up the bank from it. She could just make out the glint from the huge, broad shields the Templar Guards had. They could deflect arrows and magic, and the only real way to fight them was to get their shield down, or to get behind them.

But they hadn’t seen them yet, even though they had heard the fighting. They had a good defense, the path narrowed by rocks so that advancing on them from the front would be difficult. Anxiety squeezed her chest as Morgan realized the best option. She moved over to Bull, putting her still strung bow at her back. He leaned down when she gestured for him.

“I’m going to stealth in behind them,” she whispered, feeling the others move in to listen. “I’ll need daggers.”

Bull caught and held her gaze, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You know I can get through that shield in a couple hits, right, Boss?”

“Yes, I now, but there’s two, and there’s barely room for you to swing your axe. I know you can take both at once but it's a risk. One I won't take with such big fight waiting.” She pointed at the steep path. “Cassandra can’t guard your back going up that. I can go up, slice at the soft spots,” both Cassandra and Cullen had been showing her weak points on Templar armor, “and then you can come up and finish the other one off.” The idea of using the daggers like that again was enough to make her hands shake, but she squeezed them into fists, squaring her shoulders.

“I can freeze the other, darlings,” Vivienne said.

“It is a solid plan,” Cassandra agreed. But she had been there, too, when Morgan had lost control. “But it is not our only option.”

For a brief moment, Morgan’s smile twisted with pain, then she shook her head. “But it’s the best one. I’ll switch back to my bow on the way into the camp, get up on some rocks and catch the ones trying to run.” She pushed her fear further and further down, under a casual tone and decisive nod. She held out her hands to Bull.

He scoured her face with a piercing look, and she knew he was reading her, looking for tiny shifts of expression. She just set her jaw stubbornly and raised her brows. Sighing, Bull pulled a pair of daggers from his belt. They were different from the ones before, these actually _made_ for dual wielding. The weight and balance were better, too. He just shrugged when she gave him a questioning look, and there wasn’t time to press further.

“Stay,” she ordered Hinter sternly. “Watch their backs.”

She vanished into a cloud of smoke, somehow slipping up the well-lit path unnoticed. Bull found himself sucking in a breath, watching the Templars closely. But they never lunged forward, never sounded the alarm. Then Morgan appeared, ducking down and swiping with a dagger. The man screamed, tendons parting like tissue paper. He wasn’t wearing a coif or a gorget, and silver flashed over his throat before turning red.

Morgan leaped back, feeling a rush of cold air as the other Templar froze solid, sword raised to her. Then Bull was charging up the path, swinging his ax and breaking the poor man to pieces. Without time to talk, Morgan hurriedly returned the daggers and drew her bow again. Hinter bumped her once with his nose and was satisfied she wasn’t hurt.

The path started again, going along the edge of the river and leading towards the main encampment. The rattle of armor was audible even from a distance, and Morgan could see that they had cut trees and honed them to spikes. They had fortified themselves well, dug in like ticks. It would take a good deal of effort to dig them out. Morgan clambered up on a rock, watching as a guard paced back and forth. This one didn’t have a big shield, but was wearing his helmet.

But with the distance she had, Morgan’s arrows would punch right through the plate, especially since she knew where the armor was weakest. With a sweep of her hand, Vivienne started a fire further in, and alarms were sounded. As the guard turned his back to look at the commotion, Morgan put an arrow through his neck.

His comrades heard the crash of armor as he went down, and now their attention was split. Morgan fired again and again, falling into a rhythm and raining against their flanks, forcing them back to the fire, right to where Bull and Cassandra had snuck around. Morgan and Vivienne followed them into the camp, Hinter glued to their sides, turning around every few moments to watch their backs.

The din of battle became white noise, pushed to the background as Morgan picked her targets. There were no traps laid, and food was cooking over the fire. No one had been expecting enemies to charge right into the heart of the camp. They should have been more careful with their letters, the papers collected by Leliana’s scouts providing their location and numbers.

An arrow grazed Morgan’s thigh, and she made a high, sharp noise. Hinter snarled, putting his body in front of her injured leg, hackles up and head low. “Stay!” she bellowed. An arrow would kill him easily if he went charging off. Blue light glowed around them as a barrier rose. Flames burst from the ground beneath the archer’s feet, engulfing him in flame.

There was a flurry of noise behind Vivienne and Morgan, and Hinter practically knocked them over to leap at the Templar rogue. Morgan spun and put an arrow in his arm before he could slash at the leaping dog. But this one was smart, wearing a gorget to protect his throat. “Down!” Vivienne shouted. Morgan and Hinter leaped clear as lighting struck the man, body thrashing and twitching, their hair standing on end.

Bull’s voice cut through the din. “Could use a hand!”

“I’m pinned down!” Cassandra shouted. “Help the qunari!”

Morgan glanced at the mage and Vivienne nodded. “I’ve got this handled, darling,” she said, setting fire to a man _inside_ his armor as he charged at them. Morgan took off running, legs burning as she raced up the hill, leaping over bodies and ducking a swing from an ax. She spun and paused for half a moment to put an arrow in the ax wielder's chest.

Bull was pinned against a sharp drop into the rocky riverbed, not enough water to cushion his fall. The three Templars that faced him were all battered and bloody, a shield with a huge chunk out of it laying discarded on the grass. The qunari himself was panting, a cut along his ribs bleeding heavily. Something cold and sharp gripped Morgan from the inside.

She crouched, drawing one of her explosive arrows. She had to be careful; if she hit wrong she’d throw Bull back into the river and onto the rocks. But he saw her, feinting to the side and opening up two of the Templars. Morgan fired, hitting at their feet and blowing them both into the air. One crashed over the edge, and one got tangled in a bush. Morgan vanished in a blinked and reappeared at Bull’s side, putting an arrow in the Templar’s shoulder.

Bull roared, and she slid back, giving him room to swing. The force of his blow caved the man’s armor and chest in with a sickening crunch. Morgan was glad for the helmets then; they hid the eyes. Cassandra’s yell of triumph put worry for the Seeker from Morgan’s mind, and a cold laugh from Vivienne signaled the end of the fight.

Morgan dropped her bow, turning to Bull. He was scowling, heavy brow deeply furrowed. Without thinking, Morgan dropped her pack and thrust an arm into it, cursing as she rummaged. She came out with a thick pad of cotton and the jar of salve. “Sit,” she ordered. Bull grumbled and winced, but did as he was told. When she poured water over the wound to rinse out dirt and some of the blood, all he did was suck in a quick breath.

Cursing herself for not asking if Vivienne could manage healing magic, Morgan pressed the pad firmly to the wound. “Hold this. And drink a potion.”

Bull put a hand firmly over hers, letting her pull back as he held the pad to his ribs. “I know the drill, Boss. I’m fine.” He popped a cork and downed the potion. The bleeding slowed and the wound shrank slightly, but the cut was deep and needed real attention.

Morgan snorted, now able to search her bag more thoroughly. “You can say that when you stop bleeding,” she muttered. She shifted her position to kneel, and yelped. “Fucking nug-humping shit!” She looked down at her leg, the arrow graze forgotten until now. “Right through my pants…” She made a rude gesture in the general direction of where the archer had fallen, making Bull chuckle and promptly wince.

The wool of her trousers was darkening around the small slash. She took one of her own potions, cursing at the bitter taste. She stood back up, and limped over to Bull. “Lemme see.” She prodded the edge of the cotton pad.

“Please take a seat, darling.” The cool tones of the first enchanter brooked no argument as she approached, immaculate and pristine. Hinter had a new scar across his nose, already healed and pink. “Being the Court Enchanter doesn’t just mean throwing fire and ice. Both of you sit still while I work.”

Both Morgan and Bull submitted meekly to the healing, the touch of Vivienne’s magic cool, in comparison to Solas’s warmth. Hinter sat her side, ears back and slightly down. As Morgan’s turn came, the dog crawled over to Bull, putting his head on his boot. Bull reached down and ran his hand along the dog’s back, mumbling quiet praise at the red muzzle and claws.

When the bleeding was stopped, and Morgan was left with only slightly bloodstained breeches, she flopped back onto the grass. She stared up at the trees, listening to the river, and the waterfall not far off. It was actually a beautiful spot, and she felt a bit annoyed that it had to be marred by death. More funeral pyres. Even if she didn’t like Templars, they still didn’t deserved to be torn apart further by beasts.

With Morgan and Bull patched up, they paired off the gathered the bodies. Cassandra said that she could manage by herself, and Morgan frowned at her. Even if she was used to jokes about her height, she hated when people assumed that she was weak. Without a word, she pulled a Templars’s arm over one shoulder, and hoisted him up, legs bending as she lifted. Dwarves were deceptively strong, for whatever reason, but everyone always seemed surprised.

There were twenty of them, and it took the rest of the day to arrange the bodies in a clear space of ground, dragging away anything flammable and taking what would be of use. Unfortunately, that much armor could not be wasted, so along with dragging bodies about and getting smeared with blood, they had to unbuckle and remove what armor had not been damaged in the fight.

When the pyre was finally lit, Morgan drifted off, going back down the path and sitting on the edge of it, feet dangling towards the water rushing below. It wasn’t much of a drop there, but far too cold for swimming. Hinter brought her a rabbit, having found it easier to eat if she skinned and gutted it first. She did so without a word, shoulders hunched in the cooling temperatures. She would not warm herself on a funeral pyre. She wasn’t overly superstitious, but doing _that_ was just begging to get cursed.

She heard her name once, but didn’t look up. She was just glad her _name_ was being used, instead of a title. Guilt of a different sort had taken up residence today, and she was too busy puzzling it out to hear Bull approaching. She cursed herself when she did; she should never let her guard down, especially with him. Her mind decided it was a good time to point out that he could have been tasked with killing the Inquisition before it even got started, simply by ending her life. Cursing, she tossed one of the rabbit feet into the river, scowling.

Bull didn’t say a word as he lowered himself down next to her, his feet hanging much closer to the surface of the river, stray droplets spotting his leather boots. “You’ve got a weird face on, Boss,” he said.

Morgan rolled her eyes, kicking his leg lightly with her boot. “That’s just my face, ass,” she said, but there was no edge to the words.

“It’s no good stewing in your own head all the time. You’re not used to killing; no one will judge you for taking a while to get used to it.”

Her answer actually surprised him. “It’s not the killing that bothered me,” she murmured softly, picking at her short nails. As usual, he didn’t press, waiting to see if she wanted to keep talking. “I know it should, it _did_. But this time…” She shrugged helplessly, brows deeply furrowed, words becoming halting and slightly disjointed. “It’s just not there this time. I didn’t… I didn’t feel sick looking at them… afterwards. I thought I was, but... I was… _glad_ that they were dead, and we weren’t.”

“Being glad you survived is pretty normal,” Bull pointed out, trying to find some clue in her profile as the shadows grew longer.

Morgan shook her head, jaw tightening and showing the first signs of fear. “That’s not what it is. I’m always glad when we win, but this… I _beat_ them. _I_ was stronger. I’m never stronger… I’m always…” She bit her lip. “I’m always not enough. But _this_ time, I _was._ It felt… good.” The last word was a croak, terrified and small.

Understanding swept over him, and he felt a rush of familiarity, a connection. He remembered his first mission, the first time he’d been sent undercover to take out a target. He had always loved sparring with his comrades, besting them in a fight more often than not. But killing… killing was a rush, a surge of visceral power. Proving that _you_ were the strongest. There was no comparing to the first moment you felt that.

And for Morgan… It would be terrifying.

“You are strong, you know,” Bull said after a moment. “Even if you’re not good with daggers yet, you’ve got good instincts. You’re quick, too. You know people underestimate you and know how to use it against them. Underestimating your opponent is one of the quickest ways to end up dead.”

“I shouldn’t like it,” Morgan mumbled, the tightness in her jaw more pronounced. “I should have tried to make them stand down, talked to them. I just charged in and killed him and it… it felt good.” Her voice wavered. “I’ve never been strong before.”

“Now that’s bullshit, if you’ll pardon the term. First, I’ve seen your arms, you _are_ strong.” She opened her mouth to argue and he held up a hand. “Second, someone as kind as you has to be _damn_ fucking strong to live make it through the Carta. Most people like you, they’d get killed in the first year.”

“Wasn’t for lack of trying,” Morgan mumbled.

“See? You have talent for staying alive, Boss.” He touched her shoulder lightly, just for a moment. He didn’t know how comfortable she was with physical contact. She didn’t flinch or shy away, and finally looked up at him.

“From now on, we give everyone a chance. Unless they’re attacking us or innocents, we don’t lift a blade.”

Bull frowned. “You gotta be careful with that. Do you know how easy it is to slit someone’s wrist from a handshake?” She _did_ flinch then, and he almost felt bad. Almost.

“I’m not gonna go around shaking the hands of everyone we meet,” she said, some of the substance coming back to her voice. “You’re good at shouting. You can just say, ‘you gonna kill us or not?’, or something. Yell it from a good ways away.” She was trying to deflect, offering a weak smile as she looked over. He didn’t push.

“Yeah, but a big qunari shouting at people is probably gonna be scary enough,” he said. “And what if they don’t speak common? They could think I’m insulting their mother or something.”

“I find it’s best to avoid commenting on peoples’ mothers, no matter where they’re from.”

“Pretty good policy,” Bull agreed. “Granted, you won’t get a rise out of qunari talking about mothers.”

“Right,” she looked at him, remembering Krem’s comment ant their first meeting. But she didn’t push, just looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Aren’t you gonna ask?” he prodded.

Morgan shook her head. “I’m not gonna push and ask personal things. You’re fun to be around and all, but I don’t know you well enough to be able to do that.” There was a seriousness in her tone, and her green-hazel eyes mirrored the intent. Such respect was rare.

“I don’t mind, you know. You can ask. If I don’t wanna answer, I won’t. It’s that simple.” He felt her watching him, scrutinizing his face in the fading light. Not that the dark would matter to her eyes. She was looking for a trace of lie or honesty, probably out of habit more than anything else. He was confident in his ability to keep his face the way he wanted it, to give people what they wanted.

Morgan had gotten very, very good at reading people. After joining the Carta at seventeen, there had been six attempts on her life inside a year. Some of them could have been her teachers simply testing her, but she would never be sure. Reading peoples’ intentions from the tone of their voice or the shift of their jaw had become necessary for survival. She’d been _good_ at it, and especially good at getting people to drop their guards around her.

But she couldn’t read Bull. Not his face anyway. He was probably much older than her, and thus had much more training. His voice would occasionally give her clues, though. He seemed honest enough, but it was still unsettling that the skills that had kept her alive for nearly nine years were utterly useless. She looked over her shoulder, seeing Cassandra and Vivienne pitching the tents, orbs of mage fire hovering to light their work.

“So… you aren’t raised by your birth mothers?” she finally said.

“Nah, the Tamassrans raise us in groups of kids all our own age. They’re like… teachers, or Chantry sisters.”

Morgan tried and failed to imagine a tiny version of bull, without the huge horns and body, without the scars. “I imagine it would take the patience of a saint to deal with a group of rowdy qunari children.”

“Well, yeah. But we’re taught self control very early on. We're powerful. If we don't control our emotions and actions, that power can get out of hand and hurt people. The Qun keeps that in check.” His brows knit together for half a moment, but quickly relaxed to a neutral expression. “But yeah, especially when the horns start coming in. They itch like crazy and the only thing that really helps is to hit your head against something solid.”

Morgan made a very unattractive noise that strangled out in a giggle she hid behind her hand. “Nooo! You're having me on!”

Bull shook his head, very serious. “I am _not_. It's sort of like when non-qunari babies have their teeth come in. But later on... And bigger, and out of your head.” He offered a lopsided grin.

 _'Maker, that fucking smile...'_ It lifted the corners of his mouth, pulling at the scars on his face and the skin around them. Beyond the scars, there were lines, around the mouth and eyes, showing how often he smiled and laughed. As craggy and scarred as it was, Morgan thought his face was beautiful.

Her fascination with scars was an old one. She had seen warriors before, brave people who put their life on the line and fought with everything they were. Their battles were not easy, forcing them to leave pieces of themselves behind. But the scars... Scars were a symbol that you had pushed through and _survived._ And Bull had survived so much. He wore each and every one like a badge of pride, a testament to his strength and skill. They made him magnificent.

Feeling her gaze begin to linger, Morgan scooted back from the edge, rising slowly to her feet with a grunt. “I'm too young to feel this old,” she muttered.

“Hey, I don't wanna hear it,” Bull said, coming to his feet with his usual unexpected grace. They started walking over to where the camp was being set. “Hey, how old are you anyway?”

“Don't the Ben-Hassrath teach you it's rude to ask women their age?”

“Yeah, but that's _most_ women, and you're not most women, Boss.”

She balked, just a little, ducking her head. “Twenty-six,” she muttered.

“When I first saw you, you looked like a kid,” Bull said. Traveling and fighting with her had given him clues to her real age. The events she remembered; the trends of the Free Marches and political shifts.

“Mum looked like a teenager until she had me, so I figure I'll look good until I pop out a coupla kids.” Her tone turned bitter at the end.

“If we're still doing the whole honesty thing, you don't seem like the type to wanna settle down with a gaggle of kids underfoot,” Bull said.

“Well, it's what my father wanted, so you know I gotta avoid it like the Blight, just to piss the bastard off,” she said. The moment she realized what she'd said, she nearly stumbled, eyes widening and cheeks paling. Bull could see her drawing back in on herself, putting up her walls and barriers. As usual, he didn't push, just filing the information away for later.

When they walked into the camp, a fire had already been started. It had been Morgan’s turn to carry the main cookpot, and she filled it with water and set it in the stand to heat. There were plenty of dried vegetables in the rations, and while not as good as fresh, it was certainly better than going hungry. Everyone contributed some of their dried meat, as well as a packet of spices from Vivienne. Hinter was still gnawing at the rabbit carcass, and they all ate in silence.

Morgan hardly tasted the stew, even though the red pepper flakes floating in it warmed her mouth and throat. She ate and cleaned her travel dishes, and packed them away. She thought about trying to wind the skein of yarn for Varric into a ball, but she didn’t expect to be awake long enough. The fire crackled, chasing away the chill. Eventually, Cassandra broke the silence by clearing her throat.

“We… should sort out the sleeping arrangements,” she said, not meeting anyone’s eye and staring stubbornly into the fire. Morgan blinked and looked around, confused.

The realization came to her only when her gaze landed on Bull, and she realized that he was the only male present. And even then, it took her another moment to realize why Cassandra seemed slightly awkward. For a few brief moments, Morgan’s stomach dropped at the idea of sharing a tent—which was very close to sharing a bed—with Bull. But when the initial shock of the idea wore off, she made herself shrug.

“It only makes sense that I share with Bull,” she finally said. “Our tents aren’t exactly built for qunari, but he’ll be less cramped if he shares with me.” Her tone and words were even, but as she spoke, she felt her stomach flutter a little. “My feet don’t reach the edge of the bed roll, and Hinter can sleep there.” She ventured a look in Cassandra’s direction.

The Seeker’s eyes met hers, probably looking for any sign of discomfort. Morgan wasn’t about to say aloud that the idea of sleeping next to Bull made her heart race, so she just gave a casual shrug. “If this is about my ‘honor as a woman’,” she said, trying not to smile when Cassandra’s face reddened, “I’m afraid that ship has sailed. Nothing honorable about me at all.” Her voice took on a purposely jovial tone at the end, hoping to help the older woman relax.

Instead, Cassandra gave a sharp eyed smiled, and actually seemed amused. “Try not to announce that to anyone else. You’ll undo all of Josephine’s hard work.”

“That’s a losing battle she’s fighting,” Morgan said, unlacing and pulling off her boots. “Trying to make a Carta dwarf seem honorable. There’s no honor in organized crime.”

“But there is romance in it, dear,” Vivienne said, making Morgan look up. “People adore tales of dashing thief princes and formidable pirate queens. Painting you in such a way would not be difficult. The rumors circulating grow more fantastic by the day, I’m sure.” She chuckled lightly when Morgan made a face.

“As long as they don’t make me some sorta damsel in distress,” she said. She looked down at the yarn in her hands, the ache of the day settling into her bones. Stretching her arms over her head, she yawned widely. “Going to bed. Wake me for my watch.” Bringing her shoes to set at the end of her sleeping area beside her pack, she crawled into the tent, making sure it closed behind her.

She pulled off her leathers before she even got onto the bedroll, not wanting any of the dirt to end up where she slept. Stripping down to her leggings and stay, she hurried to unlace it and pull on her looser, but no less warm, sleeping shirt. It was far too cold to remove her hoes or leggings, and she draped her cloak over the top of her blanket. Hearing whining at the tent flap, Morgan pulled it aside and let Hinter in. As had become his habit, he spun a few times before curling into a ball at the foot of her bedroll.

The ground was fairly even, and the pad laid beneath it took some of the edge out of the hardness. Hinter didn’t object when she draped the end of her blanket over him, and stuck her feet under his leg. Her hoes saved him from the real coldness of her toes. They had decided watches earlier that day, and Vivienne had volunteered to take the first shift.

As her feet started to feel more like feet and less like chunks of ice-crusted meat, Morgan hung on the edge of sleep, trying to make sense of her feelings. He regret and guilt still did not extend to the act of killing itself, and that terrified her, made her hate herself. Her mother had raised her to have respect for all life; she had been the child that would rescue drowning worms during the rainstorms. She didn’t know how that girl and the woman who suddenly relished in the adrenaline of battle could coexist.

She curled tightly into a ball, blanket nearly over her head and arms wrapped around herself. The tears happened slowly, building behind closed lids and leaking out over her cheeks. But she grit her teeth against them, taking slow, deep breaths. She couldn’t fall apart, couldn’t be weak. Being weak simply wasn’t an option for her any longer. Whatever obstacles she faced, she would simply have to overcome them. It was simple.

But not simple enough to help her sleep. Guilt gnawed at her even as she kept the tears down, the muffled conversation outside fading until she heard Bull’s voice at the mouth of the tent. “You good for me to come in, Boss?”

That damn courtesy of his! Big, scary mercenaries weren’t supposed to be polite! Morgan couldn’t help the tiny, but still incredulous smile tugging at her mouth. “As long as you don’t plan on making noise, I don’ care,” she mumbled from under the blanket.

After a snort of laughter, cold air rushed in as the tent flap was pulled back. As Bull stepped in, he stooped to keep his horns from scraping the ceiling, quickly turning to tie the tent closed again. In the dim light, he saw the black and white shape of Hinter, and the lump under the blankets and cloak that had to be Morgan. All he could see of her a bit of her hair and the first inch or so of forehead.

As he watched, the lump that was Morgan scooted closer to the wall of the tent, as if trying to give him more room. He shook his head and sat down, unbuckling his ankle brace. “I shared a tent with that mage of yours, and I’ve shared tents with the Chargers. You don’t gotta squish yourself on account of me, Boss.”

“I always scrunch up,” Morgan mumbled. She also tended to migrate towards warmth in her sleep, and was very much hoping she ended up snuggling with Hinter. She could feel his eyes on her back, the shift of fabric and leather as he set aside his boots.

“You didn’t have to volunteer if sharing with me makes you uncomfortable, Boss,” he said gently.

 _‘Shit.’_ It was eerie how perceptive he was. Morgan sighed and sat up, the light of the Mark painting his craggy face in flickering green light. “ _You_ don’t make me uncomfortable, Bull,” she said firmly, and she wasn’t putting on a face. He was one of the few people that _didn’t_ make her uncomfortable, even if he was far too attractive for his own good. “If I don’t like something, I’ll be sure to complain as loudly as Varric.”

“You never complain about your hip,” Bull pointed out.

“That’s…” She deflated slightly, and ran her fingers nervously through her hair. Maker, was she really going to go into how deeply self-conscious she was? No. Crippling self-doubt caused by years of emotional abuse really weren’t the sort of thing she wanted to talk about. Nor was the fact that she found him absolutely beautiful and was terrified of how he’d react to that admission. “That’s… that’s different. It’s…”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to press. If anyone knows about old injuries, it’s me.” Bull touched his own knee. “As long as you’re good, Boss.”

Morgan put on a cheeky grin, wondering if he could see in the dark. “I can feel the heat you’re putting out from here. It’ll be nice not to freeze for once.” She heard him chuckle, and saw the shift of his horns as he shook his head.

“I see how it is. All my skills, and I’m reduced to a lowly bedwarmer,” he said dramatically, and despite her blush, Morgan couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, it’s the only reason I’m keeping you around, Bull.” She laid back again.

“Then you’re paying me _way_ too much, Boss.”

Morgan didn’t know how much they were paid at all, actually, but instinct kept her from admitting it. As much as she liked Bull, she still didn’t— _couldn’t_ —trust him. She _liked_ nearly all the people that had gathered, but she couldn’t trust any of them. Trust was a luxury afforded to very few people. It was a dangerous weakness in the Carta. Even when they were fighting back to back, there was a part of Morgan ready to turn and defend against her allies. As much as she hated that part of herself, it had kept her alive.

As she lay in the dark, listening to Bull settle in, laying on his back—how else could he lay with a rack like his?—a realization crept up on her. It was slow, and gradual, then all of a sudden, it was there in perfect clarity. She _wanted_ to trust him. It went beyond her wishing she wasn’t so distrustful. She liked Bull enough that she wanted to be able to have him without her back without question, to be able to tell him anything and not fear judgment.

She _wanted_ that openness with a person, that sort of vulnerability that always came with real trust. And she wanted it with _Bull_ , the self-admitted spy, who seemed to have every intention of _remaining_ a spy. Morgan nearly groaned at the depth of her own stupidity. The charismatic draw he had just _had_ to be a ploy of some kind. No one was that easy going… right?

No. Trusting Bull was a bad idea, and it was best to squash any thoughts of it before they could take root. She could fight with him, travel with him, eat with him, and laugh with him. But trusting _him_ , of all people, was _not_ an option that she should entertain. She rolled over on her side again, tucking her feet under Hinter’s leg. He grumbled and licked the heel of her sock once before settling again.

 

000

_It was her mother’s home again, littered with items of the Inquisition. Banners, shields, crates, and so many markers from the War Table. Morgan looked down at her left hand. Like before, there were a few moments where the Mark did not exist, before it flared to bright and crackling life. With a sigh that seemed to echo, she walked to the door again._

_There was a handle this time, and it turned easily in her hand. But instead of opening up into the hallway—her mother’s room to the left, the hearth and kitchen to the right—as it should have, it opened into her father’s forge. Heat as real as anything washed over her. Dry, fierce heat made of glowing coals. The familiar smells were there, too, but the smithy was empty._

_Morgan felt a shiver twist its way down her spine as she stayed in the door. She could see the glowing coals, smell them burning, and the room behind her was suddenly so_ cold _. After another look around to make sure that there truly was no one else in the smithy, she stepped inside, walking forward._

 

000

 

Bull had never been a heavy sleeper, even as a child. One of the other children would stir or need to go to the bathroom, and it would wake him. It had served him well during training, and even better during Seheron. Being able to come awake, with all your senses at full capacity usually made the difference between life and death.

So it was no surprise that the sound of shifting blankets on his left brought him quickly awake. Both of them had done their watch by that point, and there were only a few hours left in the night. Then he felt small, chilled hands reach for him, and he held back the jolt as the fingers touched his shoulder. Morgan made a soft sound, still dreaming, and squirmed her way forward, body following her hand towards the warmth. Her nose was just as cold as her fingers when it pressed into the side of his arm, her body hunching towards his warmth.

After she stopped moving, Bull held his own breath as he listened to hers. Slow, even, and deep. The dwarf was still fast asleep, and if he’d looked over, he was certain he would have seen her eyes dancing under closed lids as she dreamed. She was clever enough to fake it, but he’d watched her sleep before, in the tower, the night before they met Hinter. Now, it was the same rhythm as that exhausted sleep.

A smile started at the corners of his mouth and curved into a full on grin. He made no presumptions, but the idea of the Herald of Andraste cuddling up to a qunari mercenary in her sleep was hilarious, bordering on adorable. If he woke her, she would probably blush and mutter hasty, stuttering apologies. And while that would have been fun to see, he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

She might feel awkward when she woke up, but could just as easily change positions and wake up on her side of the tent. And Bull wasn’t going to complain. Even if her hands and nose were cold, she was putting out heat and it felt nice to have another body pressed close, even in such a chaste and innocent way. Her fingers and nose were warming slowly, so it would be easy for him to drift off again. There was snuffling as Hinter shifted, following his own source of warmth and curling at Morgan’s feet again, a bit closer to Bull now.

He thought for a moment about putting his arm around her, but quickly dismissed the idea. It was another presumption, and he hated people that made presumptions about physical contact. Still smiling, he closed his eyes, and drifted off with Morgan’s warm breath fanning his arm.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based my description of Fiona from her appearance in the previous games, not the whitewashed version we got in Inquisition. I'll be doing that with other characters too, so just a heads up.


	7. Apostates in Witchwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fight some mages, weird shit happens, and they meet a Warden. He looks familiar.

Apostates in Witchwood:

 

Morgan hadn’t felt so peaceful upon waking in months. But the moment she realized her nose was pressed to _skin_ instead of tent canvas, the peace was shattered like a frozen demon under Bull’s axe. Bull felt her go rigid next to him, but pretended to remain sleeping. Morgan eased back, doing her utmost not to jostle him. She actually did an excellent job, and if Bull hadn’t been Bull, and had actually been asleep, she probably wouldn’t have awakened him. He waited until a short while after she left the tent with Hinter to start stirring.

Hinter went off to hunt up his own breakfast, and Morgan stalked quickly over to the secluded stand of trees and thick bushes where they had dug their latrine trench. She wanted to scream, she felt so embarrassed. The few times she’d shared a bed with someone for more than one night, she had always ended up cuddled close. As she picked her way back to camp she thanked the Maker that she hadn’t been wrapped around Bull, as had been her tendency in the past.

Bull greeted her with a wave and a yawn by the fire, either unaware of or ignoring what had happened. He didn’t take as long to get dressed, so he took over the fire and reheating what was left of last night’s stew, while the women of the group went to dress. Morgan hurried to do so, skin prickling and nipples stiff with the cold. The chill of her mail shirt was horrible, but over all her other layers, and under her lined coat, it became tolerable. She saw that Bull had already rolled up and packed his bedroll, and did the same with hers, emptying the tent and stepping out.

Somehow, Vivienne managed to look resplendent in a simple brown cloak with black fur trim. There looked to be a fur liner under her hennin now as well, covering her ears. The clothes beneath were a deep green leather, high boots with grieves that looked both delicate and menacing. Morgan felt decidedly _plain_ with her burgundy hat and purple cowl. People wandering and sleeping in the wild had no business looking so refined.

Cassandra was much more practical, with a thick coat belted over her armor, and a wool and leather cap to wear under her helmet. But Morgan didn’t miss the little flourish of red fabric in the form of a red scarf tied and tucked into Cassandra’s shirt. Bull was the only one not dressed for the cold, and it didn’t seem to be bothering him in the least. If Morgan had been in his position, she was sure her nipples would have been able to cut glass.

Hinter returned with a rabbit that Morgan skinned and gutted with practiced ease. She cut the meat from the carcass, and took the bones to be buried with their latrine. While Vivienne had spelled it to keep any poison from their waste from leaking into the ground water, as well as to the hide the smell, Morgan was—unfortunately, she told herself—the best at making sure that the physical evidence of the digging was gone.

She came out of the trees in time to see Vivienne snuff the fire with a wave of her hand and flick of her wrist. Cassandra threw the—now cool—burned logs into the river, and Morgan used leafy branches to sweep away evidence of their tracks. The sun was just starting to come over the horizon, and everyone’s breath plumed in clouds before them. Morgan watched Hinter and bit her lip. With their wolf blood, mabari tended to have thick, if short, coats. Hinter's mixed blood had given him a fairly thin one, and Morgan was very glad that she had had the coat made for him.

 

000

 

Witchwood might have been a beautiful place if it wasn’t so eerie. Evidence of mage fights were everywhere. Magical circles carved into every surface surrounding abandoned camps. Huge chunks of ice that refused to melt. More often than not, there were bodies in the ice. There were also corpses with every bit of flesh burned away, leaving only blackened and brittle bone. There were burned books, too. Somehow, it was the latter that took hold of Morgan, and stayed with her as they walked. She loved to read, and seeing books destroyed had always saddened her.

It was also easier to be sad about a few books than about so many dead people.

Upon entering the woods, which were full of excellent places to set up an ambush, they had buried their packs and supplies under a fall of rocks, assisted by Vivienne. That way, they didn’t have to worry about trying to fight with their packs on. So now they all walked, unencumbered, in a circle, weapons drawn and ready. The path twisted and split, sometimes coming to an abrupt end. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere specific. They were just looking for the apostate stronghold. ‘Signs’ had been mentioned in the papers that the scouts had found, but none of the magical circles or unmelting ice proved helpful.

It was Hinter that helped them find the first sign. While he stayed in line behind Morgan, he would occasionally huff as some small creature raced past. Morgan always looked, in case it was one she and the others would have to be concerned about as well. This time, it was a small red squirrel, running up a tree to chatter at them angrily from a safe distance. It such a common sight in the forest that Morgan almost disregarded it.

Then she saw something hanging from the branch the little beast perched on. It looked like wood, bent and tied in the shape of circles, tied together so that their lines sat perpendicular to one another. There was no way it was a natural formation, and _had_ to have been hung with some sort of purpose in mind. She called quietly to the others, and stopped, pointing up.

“That looks like a trail marker,” Bull said, head slightly tilted as he looked up.

“The apostates can’t lay a direct path to their camp, or risk a map falling into the wrong hands,” Cassandra said, walking around to view the thing from multiple angles. “There may be more of them, marking the way for stragglers to the cause.”

There was a note of derision in her voice that set Morgan’s teeth on edge. But the mages not hiding out in Redcliffe had proved violent and unreasonable, attacking anyone and everyone they came across. With all that, she easily understood how Cassandra felt. Morgan had tried to reason with nearly every single one they met, and had been singed on more than one occasion as a result. The needless loss of life was infuriating and saddening. It wasn’t as if they’d be sent back to the circles, or jailed, if they surrendered to the Inquisition.

“Well, which one of us is gonna spend the day getting a crick in their neck looking for these things?” Bull said.

“If they’re all in the trees, you can just walk along until your horns bump into something,” Morgan said, eyes shining.

“I’m not _that_ tall,” Bull sniffed. “I could put you on my shoulders, so you could look for it and I could keep an eye on below, so we don’t get flanked.” Maker, what gave him the right to have such a nice eye? It was such a pale, sharp green, glittering with mirth like a goddamn jewel, set in the silver of his skin. What sort of power would he have if he hadn’t lost the other eye?

Cassandra rolled her eyes at the banter. “We can take shifts. Two of us can look, and the others can keep a look out for foes on foot.”

“No sense in you falling to your death, my dear,” Vivienne added primly.

Bull blinked. “Did you just make a joke, Ma’am?” They only response he got was a coy smile.

It wasn’t a particularly _cold_ day; it was actually a good deal warmer than usual. But Morgan couldn’t seem to shake off the chill from that morning. That in itself wasn’t unusual, and neither was the fact that the child clung, in particular, to her fingers and toes. She’d always had poor circulation in her extremities. But as they advanced deeper and deeper into the woods, skirting unmelting ice and scorched earth, she began to realize that the chill was focused in her _left_ hand, in the Mark.

The feeling was slight at first, mixing with the background noise of how her clothes moved against her skin as she walked, the weight of her quiver and belt, and the ache and grind of her bad hip. But the further they went, alternating who looked for signs, and who kept an eye out for enemies, the stronger the feeling got. When she noticed it properly, she thought her had had just fallen asleep, the way a limb would do if one sat or lay strangely for too long.

But it wasn’t just the buzzing tingle of numbness. Morgan felt like she was missing something. It was like trying to listen to a conversation through walls. The sound was there, but none of it made any sort of sense. She was aware, in a very odd way, that something was making—for lack of a better word— _noise_ , at the edge of her consciousness, beyond her ability to piece together or understand.

Her senses sharpened to high alert, eyes moving quickly at every sound, and she had to remind herself not to grip her bow too tightly. Given other circumstances, she would have assumed they were being followed. But everything came back to her hand, whatever awareness she had coming straight from the Mark. She just grit her teeth and said nothing.

Bull noticed the change. He’d found that the tension in her jaw was Morgan’s biggest tell. It would shift slightly, like she was biting her tongue, or the inside of her cheek. Her brows were pulled together in a way that was a bit different than her usual Rogue’s attentiveness, and there was a light in her sharp eyes that hinted at paranoia. But she didn’t slip up, didn’t fall or make a mistake, so he said nothing, keeping to her back while Hinter guarded her front.

They came upon more mages and sellswords while they were looking up into the trees, likely following the same signs that the Inquisition was. At least the Mages were. The sellswords were doing—for the most part—what they were paid to do, and keeping an eye out for enemies. Still hidden with the others, Morgan strung her bow, Bull and Cassandra bringing their weapons forward.

It was when Vivienne readied herself that Morgan nearly jumped. Bull crouched between Morgan and the mage, but she _felt_ the pulse of cold from Vivienne, her Marked left hand prickling with gooseflesh. More than the air temperature dropping, Morgan felt the cold magic in her _hand_ , in the _Mark_. The energy of it hummed, drawn to Vivienne, mirroring the magic she readied.

Panic pounded in her veins, and she found herself looking to Bull, and to her terror, he looked back. She knew her mask was gone, and that he would instantly see how lost and scared she suddenly was. Jerking her head away, she drew an arrow from her quiver, eyes searching for a good spot to shoot from. She flinched when his hand touched her shoulder, and he pulled it back quickly, but stayed close. He pointed past her, moving carefully.

“Over there, Boss.” His finger directed her gaze to a large boulder, angled almost like a ramp. The group had their backs to it, and it would make the perfect perch for an archer. Morgan looked back at him, her eyes tracing the lines and scars of his face, the pattern on his eyepatch, and then meeting his good eye. “You shoot from there; pick off the mages and other archers so the Seeker and I can smash ‘em. Alright?”

The panicked haze stared to clear, a purpose cut through with Bull’s direct voice and tone. Her shoulders straightened, and she nodded. “Hinter.” The dog appeared at Bull’s side, and Morgan touched the qunari’s shoulder. “Guard,” she commanded. Then she vanished in a puff of gray smoke.

Morgan climbed the slope of the rock quickly, searching and meeting Cassandra’s gaze. She could see ice traps forming on the ground on one flank, and her hand throbbed with the cold, _reaching_ , but never moving from where it gripped her bow. The shudder that followed was so strong that she had to fight it in order to keep her footing. Terror threatened to overwhelm her again, but then she saw Bull. He was watching her too, and he was smiling. He looked so confident… Confident in her? When he nodded, Morgan nodded back, rising to her feet and drawing her bow.

The first arrow was an Explosive Shot, striking a mage in the head and throwing bits of brain and bone all over his companions. What made Morgan’s stomach lurch wasn’t the gore, but the fact that she was excited by what a good shot it had been. Then the battle was in full swing, and she didn’t have time to think. She chased them first into Vivienne’s traps, and any that made it past those, were met with sword, axe, and fangs.

It shouldn’t have been glorious. It shouldn’t have filled her with such a sense of accomplishment and pride when she pinned a sellsword’s hand to a tree to keep her from hacking at Vivienne. Getting an arrow through a proper steel helmet and into someone’s skull shouldn’t have made her want to crow with glee and triumph. But it did. Her fear was forgotten as she fired arrow after arrow, herding the foes to their deaths, or dealing it out herself.

And for one brief moment when it was over, when mages and sellswords alike all lay dead, Morgan was _glad_. That moment of joy and victory came crashing down as she realized she was celebrating how she had _murdered_ people, and she bent over and vomited. Her stomach heaved over and over until there was nothing left but bile, and her throat burned from the acid.

The strange sensations from her hand was now gone and totally forgotten, replaced with a deep and bitter self-loathing. She’d _enjoyed_ that fight, enjoyed the _killing_. It was _wrong_. Wasn’t it? Wiping her mouth on her sleeve and washing her mouth out with water, she returned to the others, finding them none the worse for wear. Vivienne seemed to be in the middle of admonishing Bull for having not cleaned his weapon since the last fight.

“Odds are, we’re going to be killing something again in a few minutes,” Bull was saying, “and the bloodstains are good for scaring enemies. They see a big, messy blade, and they…” All Vivienne did was raise an eyebrow, and he deflated, grumbling under his breath, “fine. I’ll go clean it.”

The mage gave a positively glowing smile. “Thank you, darling.” The warmth of the moment reached out to Morgan, and a weak smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. But it was a hollow feeling, and some part of her mind told her that she didn’t deserve to smile.

The expression faded, and she sat down on a log, unstringing her bow and pulling off her gloves. For a few moments, she stared down at the back of it, looking at the old scars and small tattoos on her fingers; the vague shape of two arrowheads on her pinky, seven dots on her middle finger, and a ring of small squares on her thumb. There were scars, too, the largest an old gash across the back, thick and ropey. The others were small pale things, barely visible in the wrinkles of her knuckles.

Her right hand looked a good deal rougher. She had smashed her finger badly when she was still working for her father in the forge, leaving it bent and mangled. She had been so terrified of how he’d react to her mistake, that she’d hidden the injury. It had been bad, with torn skin that she tried and failed to keep from getting infected. Eventually, she’d _had_ to tell her father, and he’d yelled at her the whole way to the healers’.

They had been able to save the finger, but it would always be crooked, and the nail would always be cracked. The thick scar wrapping around the back of the digit didn’t help. She’d had a red ‘X’ tattooed on the lowest knuckle. On the same hand, the simple, geometric suggestion of an arrow was inked onto the middle finger, with a little crescent moon on the skin of the back of her hand to suggest a bow.

Finally, she turned her left hand over, watching the glow of the Mark. Whenever she touched it, it felt like skin, but… _different_ , somehow, like if she pressed too hard the flesh would give way. It didn’t _hurt_ precisely, but it was a very odd sensation. And the idea that it could do more than just close the Rifts was starting to become more and more prominent in her mind. She snuck a glance at Vivienne, and panic welled again.

Then Hinter was in front of her, up on his hind legs and planting his front paws on her chest. With a sound far too similar to a sea-bird’s shriek, Morgan fell backwards over the log, vanishing under the onslaught of dog kisses. She couldn’t bring herself to be angry at him, even when he smeared blood on her face. He always licked it off right away anyways. He was always so happy to see her after a fight, seemingly glad that she wasn’t hurt. And if she _did_ get hurt, he’d whine until she drank a potion or was tended to.

Something blotted out the sun behind them, and Hinter paused, lifting his head from Morgan’s face to look behind them. It was Bull, looking down and grinning. When the large mutt leaped on _him_ , the qunari didn’t even budge, ruffling the dog’s flopping ears as he looked up into Bull’s face with a big, lolling grin.

“You’re good with animals,” Morgan murmured, getting back to her feet and sitting on the log again. She pulled off one boot and shook the stones from it, putting it back on before she did the same with the other.

“They’re easy to understand. No hidden motives. Well, except maybe cats. And horses.”

She couldn’t help but snort. “You ever ride a dracolisk? They’re crafty fuckers.”

“They don’t really make ‘em in my size,” Bull pointed out, and his smile widened when Morgan giggled.

But that empty look still lingered in her eyes, and he sat down next to her, laying his axe across his lap. Hinter laid at their feet, chewing on a leather boot he’d stolen from someplace. Morgan was just glad there didn’t seem to be a foot still inside it. They sat in silence for a few moments, Bull’s hands going over his axe with a cloth, scrubbing away the blood and picking off bits of gore. Morgan had already unstrung her bow, and just kept staring down at her hand, letting the silence wash over her.

“You good, Boss?” he finally said.

They were becoming familiar words, and she shouldn’t find them so comforting. “I’m good,” she said reflexively, trying to draw her mask back up, but feeling it crack. “I’m… I’m dealing.” She didn’t even try to offer a smile, knowing it would be weak and watery.

Bull’s hands continued to move over his weapon, even while his eyes searched her profile. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek again. He was becoming more and more certain that the only reason she hadn’t broken down into a sobbing mess was because of a stubborn streak wider than the Waking Sea. She was going to pieces, and simply refused to let the pieces come apart, clutching them to her chest. As if squeezing them tight enough would keep them held together.

“Do you want me to teach you a few things?” he said casually. “Moves for when you get drawn into the thick of a fight, like when you couldn’t use your bow at that one Rift.”

“That was only because of demon-mc-yelly-breeches,” Morgan said sullenly.

“I mean it, Boss. You obviously know enough to get out of the way, to hurt someone enough to give you time to put distance between you. But that’s not always possible.” She could feel him looking at her directly now. “You can practice with me.”

It was actually rather touching that he was willing to offer, and Morgan’s smile reached her eyes that time. “Thank you, but…” She trailed off, expression faltering. Did she really need to learn how to _kill better_? And up close? The rush of victory was still in her veins, waning but not completely gone. She was unable to help wondering what it would be like to really jump into a fight, to go in with skill and knowing you could defend yourself.

“You have to be able to defend yourself when you don’t have a weapon on hand. You, well, no offense, but out of your armor, you’d look small and soft.” Morgan finally looked over, slightly reproachful. Bull held up a hand. “There's nothing wrong with being a lil' round; you’re still all sharp and pointy with grenades and arrows. But you should learn more about fighting without them.”

He was right, of course. While an ace with a bow and arrows, Morgan would not have bet on herself in a fistfight, even against someone of similar height and build. She knew how to make a proper fist, at least, and how to punch without breaking her own hand. She also knew that a thumb jabbed into the kidney could be much more painful than a quick slash with a blade. Putting her gloves back on, she nodding.

“You’re right. I do. When we’re done with the apostates, will you teach me?” Her cheeks were just a bit pink when she asked, and her ears felt far too warm. But it was time to start moving again, and she realized that she shouldn’t have bothered unstringing her bow.

“Be happy to,” Bull said, standing as she did. “Just as long as you don’t fire me for dumping you on your ass in the dirt.”

Morgan snorted. “I’ve got plenty of ass, so that won’t be a problem.” Maker, how did his laugh manage to be both rough and musical at the same time? Maybe he was secretly a mage? Hah!

 

000

 

The buzzing in her hand started again when they found the camp. Huge spires of ice jutted up from the earth, boulders tossed from the places they had probably laid for centuries. And beyond that, a cave, the huge mouth covered by a transparent sort of curtain, glowing with orange light. The moment Morgan looked at it, the Mark turned hot, and she somehow knew that the barrier was made of fire magic. Glancing over at Vivienne, she was able to feel a twinge of pity; the poor bastards didn’t stand a chance.

But there was a fairly large group outside, the sellswords tougher and more organized looking that the ones that the Inquisition had fought so far. There were mages as well, two of them, stalking back and forth while their compatriots hid behind the barrier. Everyone in the clearing of ice looked very twitchy. Morgan felt twitchy, too. Every time she settled her gaze on one of the mages, the Mark pulsed, not so much reaching, but reacting to... to something.

As the Inquisition fanned out, Morgan tried to remember what Solas had taught her about the Mark, and how it was a door to the Fade of some kind. And didn’t mages twist bits of the Fade to alter the reality in the physical world? But there wasn’t time to puzzle out the newest bullshit being tossed her way. This was going to be a long fight, and she was half tempted to order Hinter to stay back. She settled for keeping him glued to her side as she skirted the edge of the clearing.

Nocking another explosive arrow, she pointed her bow high, feeling the shift of the wind in her hair, biting her lip, and firing. It landed on the other side of the clearing, exploding with all the proper noise and destruction. Everyone yelled, and chaos came falling down on their enemies. Lightning and arrows penned them in from a distance, pressing them into Bull and Cassandra. They all screamed as they died, and Morgan tried to fight down the grim satisfaction growing in her chest.

She didn’t want to be sick again. Her throat was raw. But when the barrier came down of its own accord and mages poured out, she screamed anyway. Fire roared out of the cave mouth, more than any one mage could produce on their own. Her croaking scream came again as she saw Hinter sink his teeth into Bull’s arm in order to pull him behind one of the ice pillars, the magical material steaming behind them as the flames roared past.

Bull stared down at the dog, and at the bleeding holes in his arm. The dog’s head was down, and his tail was tucked, looking terrified at what he’d done, and clearly expecting a beating for it. He flinched when Bull laid his hand on his neck, but didn’t shy away. Bull scratched Hinter’s neck just the way the dog liked, praising him softly before lifting his axe again. Then he saw Morgan, darting between spots of cover as she nearly sprinted down to the clearing.

Then she stopped and was shooting past him, through the flames as the mages poured out of hiding. The smell of fire and lightning and unwashed body filled the air, mingling with the screams. Morgan took a blast of fire while inside a weakening barrier, and was knocked back, head cracking against the icy ground. Her vision swam, Cassandra’s shout dim and distant. A figure was looming over her, fire glowing in their hands, and she found her own suddenly empty.

As the heat rushed at her, she did the only thing she could think of, putting her hands up before her face.

All at once, her left arm burned. But it was not the sear of flesh like she knew from the forge. It was like the heat came from _inside_ her, burning out from her bones and racing towards… towards the Mark? She heard the heavy impact of Bull’s axe, and the mage’s scream. Her vision still swimming, she felt someone pulling her up, a big arm around her back. There was barking, too, loud and angry.

It felt like a swarm of bees was living in her arm, buzzing anxiously under her skin. She smelled leather and musk, the smell tripping recognition in her foggy brain. “Bull…?” Was that voice hers? Morgan couldn’t tell.

There was blood on the back of her head, smearing over Bull’s arm as it rolled back, her eyes wide and blinking. Bull didn’t even want to guess what was going on with her left hand. There was heat pouring off of it, or at least there had been when he first reached her. It was waning now, but it was still _magic_ , and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He had dragged her away from the fighting, putting a rock at their backs. Hinter had followed, the hair on his neck standing as well, though not from nervousness. His hackles were up, and he had torn into someone foolish enough to try and follow the qunari. As much Bull admired the dog’s loyalty, they were already down two people. He touched the dog’s side, getting his attention before pointing to where Vivienne and Cassandra still fought.

“They need your help.” The dog looked pointedly at Morgan, and whined. “I’ve got her,” Bull insisted. “She’s safe, and I won't let her get hurt anymore.” He pointed again. “Go.” Hinter gave one last look—one that could only be described as worried—at Morgan, then took off running, back into the fray. After seeing him leap on a mage’s back and put him face down in the dirt, Bull turned his attention back to the dwarf in his arms.

Though she still felt fuzzy, and her head was pounding, Morgan’s vision was starting to clear. She saw the shape of Bull’s horns, and then the finer details of his scarred face. His brows were furrowed, and she found herself noticing, not for the first time, that there wasn’t much hair left on the left one, the scars too deep for hair to have grown back. Blinking, she winced, trying to touch the back of her throbbing head.

“Easy, Boss,” Bull said, catching her hand and lowering it back down. “You hit your head pretty good."

“Are you—” she began.

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

“Hinter—”

“Also fine. So are Ma’am and Cassandra.” He looked up just to make sure that was still the truth. It was. The two women were both forces of nature, cutting a path through their enemies with sword and magic.

“Nug-shit,” Morgan mumbled. “Didn’ e’vn get hit ‘n battle. Jus’ fell down.” She made a face, and Bull chuckled, even though the slurred speech had him worried. “Aw, my bow… That pretty red-head—Harding? Th' dwarf?—she gave it t’ me.”

Bull pressed the weapon in question back into her hands, feeling some of the tension melt out of her instantly. “As funny as it would be to see you running around with a human sized bow again, Boss, I figured I should bring this, too.”

“I could string a line between your horns and fire from your back,” she said, and he laughed again. She smiled. “Got a nice laugh, Bull, even when you are worried.” Shit. Even with her brain rattled she was still reading him. How long had it been since someone outside the Ben-Hassrath had been able to read him so easily? Had anyone _ever_ been able to? Bull found that he actually wasn’t sure.

Feeling a bit more herself, Morgan sat up a bit in Bull’s arms. If her head hadn’t been throbbing like a herd of stampeding druffalo inside her skull, she might have blushed to be leaning up against his chest with his arm around her. She could feel the stickiness of blood on the back of her head, but found herself without a single burn. Her armor wasn’t even singed. She remembered the mage, and the fire, and the…

“Bull, did you see what happened?” she asked, hearing a victorious yell from Cassandra in the distance. “After I fell, the mage was standing over me, I saw fire…” Looking up at him, her brows furrowed deeply, cheek shifting as she chewed the inside of it. “What happened?”

It actually took effort not to shift uncomfortably; she’d probably think he was weirded out by _her_ , and while he _was_ at the moment, she didn’t need to know that. “Not really sure. Not good with magical crap.”

“But you have to have seen _something_ ,” Morgan pressed, blinking to focus on his face.

“Your mark… it… it turned _orange_ ,” Bull finally said, eyes watching the others as they started to make their way back over. “It looked like your hand was on fire, but…” He didn’t look, but reached down and touched the back of her left hand, the leather of her glove still perfectly intact. “It _looked_ like it absorbed the fire. Maybe. But like I said, I don’t know shit about magic.”

“Did… did Lady Vivienne see?” Her voice was so tiny he actually felt a pang of pity for the younger woman.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to offer much comfort. “Dunno.” She hunched forward, pressing her marked hand to her chest as she drew in on herself. “We’ll ask later. Let’s have you looked at.”

Vivienne _had_ seen, but she said nothing as she approached, putting a glowing hand on the back of Morgan’s head. “You have a concussion dear; bruising to the brain. This may take a while.”

The dwarf nodded, shivered in pain, and shifted to sit with her back to the other woman. She submitted to the healing, feeling the cool magic wash over her, echoed by something in her Mark. It felt less like bees now, and more like flowing water. The mage could feel it, too, the Mark reacting to the magic passing over and through Morgan’s body. It made a bit of sense, if you considered the Mark a sort of key, or doorway to the Fade. All magic in the physical world was the result of mages twisting Fade energy to alter reality. Why shouldn’t the Mark react to magic? It reacted to the Rifts, and despite how distasteful they were, they were still magic. Vivienne filed all her remaining questions away for later.

As the fuzziness of her head cleared, and the pain faded, Morgan became aware of Hinter’s weight against her, and his head in her lap. She fumbled her glove off and scratched him under the collar. Remembering something, she looked back at over at Bull, who was sitting across from her, cleaning his axe.

“Hinter bit you,” she said.

Bull blinked, then glanced down at the teeth marks in his arm. Hinter whined in Morgan’s lap, tail wagging weakly. “He was just getting me out of the way. I’ve gotten worse bites fooling around in bed.”

Cassandra made a disgruntled noise, and Vivienne hummed gently. “Iron Bull, dear, do try not to make Miss Cadash blush; the change in blood flow makes matters more difficult.”

Morgan giggled nervously, and Bull wiped a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away his smile. She stilled herself, still petting Hinter. “I’m not angry,” she assured the dog. “You were just helping.” He nuzzled her hand, tail thumping the ground. She smiled. “Good boy.”

 

000

 

Vivienne made them wait at least two more hours before she allowed Morgan to move again, and even then, she gave strict orders that she was to stay to the back of any fighting, if she had to involve herself at all. It was also her professional opinion that they should not go searching for any Rifts to close. Morgan agreed wholeheartedly with the last part. The Mark _had_ gone back to its normal background hum, and she didn’t want to do anything that might disturb it.

But Varric had expressed concerns about Fort Connor, as scouts had reported a suspicious red glow coming from inside. They retrieved their packs and headed back towards the road. When the Inquisition reached the fort however, they found it deserted by the Templars that had been holding it. It was indeed full of Red Lyrium deposits, and whatever sort of stone sense Morgan had now, made her skin crawl just being near the stuff. Vivienne brought rocks down to cover the fort’s entrance.

Because they still had enough daylight, they decided to follow up on Leliana’s information about a Gray Warden named Blackwall near Lake Luthias. The West Road was far different when they crossed it a second time. With their main camps routed, and more Inquisition patrols in the area, there was nowhere for the Templars and rebel mages to clash on a larger scale. The bodies would be collected and burned, and the houses that had been on fire only smoked weakly.

The air changed slowly as they trekked up to the lake. Morgan loved swimming almost as much as she loved forests, and looked longingly at the lake when they finally crested the hill. But it would be far too cold for swimming for a few more months, and trying to think months ahead nearly always made Morgan think about her own mortality, and she wanted to avoid _that_ at all costs.

At the far edge of the lake, near a cliff that lead back down to the West Road, was a small cabin, surrounded by trees and thick undergrowth. Something prickled the back of her mind, and she looked around. Hinter’s ears were pricked as well, and Morgan glanced at Bull. He’d already drawn his axe and was holding it loosely before him, ready. It was good to know it wasn’t just her being paranoid. Just to be safe, she strung her bow, and carried it in her hand, making sure that her arrows were loose in her quiver. She’d have to get more soon, or start collecting the undamaged ones from bodies. Given her druthers, she’d rather just spend the coin on new ones.

A man—whose face was mostly obscured by a dark beard—was standing in front of the cabin, speaking to a cluster of what looked like farmers. Even from a distance, they could hear his voice, low and rough, his accent leaning a bit away from Ferelden towards the Free Marches. As they drew closer, the hair on the back of her neck and on her arms began to stand on end. He wasn’t wearing the blue and silver armor of the Wardens, but the griffon on his breastplate proved that he was the one they were looking for.

The moment they were close enough to properly see Warden Blackwall’s face, Morgan froze in her steps, Cassandra almost bumping into her back. Without so much as a hint of a fight, panic and adrenaline flooded Morgan's system, heart pounding in her chest.

Her father. The human she was approaching looked almost exactly like her father. It had been _years_ since she last wrote to Sars Laton, her father, and even longer since she’d actually _seen_ the man. It seemed that he—or someone that _looked_ like him—still elicited the same fear and panic he always had. Instantly, memories swirled in her head; harsh words screamed over her tears, insults and petty jabs, nothing ever good enough…

It wasn’t right! He no longer had any control over her life! She had faced mad Templars and mages and hundreds of fucking demons! A human look-alike of her father should _not_ freeze her in her tracks, terror rolling down her spine and twisting her stomach. Morgan fought it, taking a few stiff steps. She had to keep going. This man could help the Inquisition. He was _not_ her father, and she was _not_ the same passive, terrified girl.

Bull saw all of it. Morgan was showing every sign that she knew the Warden, and that she was terrified of him. He was staring at the Inquisition party now, looking each one of them over. Morgan went white under her freckles, eyes wide with panic. She was fighting it too, Bull could see it. He was about to put himself between her and the Warden, when Blackwall shouted, yanking one of the farmers out of the way of the way of an arrow.

It brought Morgan out of her fear, and almost instantly she was firing back, bandits pouring out of the trees. They were foolish, yelling before they charged, and while the farmers only seemed to have a basic grasp of swordsmanship, the rest of the fighters more than made up for it. Vivienne put herself in front of Morgan, throwing a sharp glance at the dwarf before she waded in, beautiful and unafraid.

It wasn’t a long fight, Warden Blackwall chopping through them with the efficacy of a veteran soldier. He looked briefly shocked when Hinter leaped past him to tear into a man trying to take the Warden from behind. Watching him fight actually helped ease some of her fear. While her father had been as well muscled as any decent smith, he hadn’t been a fighter. He’d made and respected weapons, but hadn’t known how to use them beyond theory.

He crouched over one of the bodies, just staring down. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Bracing his hands on his knees as he pushed back to his feet. While he said something to the men he'd been instructing before the fight broke out, Morgan gave her own group a quick once-over. No injuries to be seen, and if any more dirt had been added, it was indistinguishable from what was had already been caked on.

Then Blackwall was speaking to them, and Morgan spun around stiffly. “You're no farmer; why do you know my name? Who are you?”

He was looking at Cassandra, and for a brief moment, Morgan thought she might not have to talk to him. Bull stepped up behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing enough that she felt the pressure through her armor. She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat, and Blackwall's eyes flicked to her. They were gray; her father's had been brown.

“I know your name because I'm an agent of the Inquisition,” she said, drawing all emotion from her voice to keep it from shaking. “We're investigating if the disappearance of the Gray Wardens has anything to do with the murder of the Divine.”

The Warden's eyes widened, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. “Maker's balls, the Wardens and the Divine?” Morgan prickled slightly at his tone; like a teacher who'd just been asked a foolish question. “That can't—no, you're asking, so you don't really know.” He pulled a hand down his face and over his beard. “First off, I didn't know they'd disappeared. But we do that, right? No more Blight, job done, Wardens are the first things forgotten.” Something steely and harsh entered his eyes and tone, and only Bull's hand on Morgan's shoulder kept her from flinching. “But I'll tell you one thing. No Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose _isn't_ political.”

Morgan held up her hands, palms open and peaceful. “I'm not accusing anyone just yet. We just want information. The Divine dies, and all of a sudden, no one can find a single Warden, except you. Where are the rest?”

The man offered a slightly helpless shrug. “I haven't seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting. Not much interest since the Archdemon is a decade dead, and no need to conscript since there's no Blight coming.” His eyes drifted over to the bodies of the bandits. “Warden Treaties give us the right to take what we need. Who we need.” He pointed at the dead as he looked back to Morgan. “ _These_ idiots forced this fight so I 'conscripted' their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. Next time, they won't need me.”

Morgan blinked, understanding. The idea of Wardens just _taking_ people had always made her leery, but this man had done something entirely different with it. He'd seen people being treated unfairly, and used who and what he was to teach them to stand and fight for themselves. The selflessness was _nothing_ like Sars Laton, and Bull felt some of the tension coming out of her shoulders.

“Do you have any idea where the other Warden's could have gone?” Morgan said, voice steadier now.

Another slight shrug. “Maybe they returned to our stronghold in Weisshaupt? That's in the Anderfells, a long way north. I can't really imagine why they'd all vanish at once, much less where they'd disappear to.”

“Well, why are you still here?” Morgan asked. “You haven't disappeared.”

“Maybe I was going to. Maybe there's a new directive, but a runner got lost or something.” It was sounding more and more like he knew about as much as everyone else did about the Wardens; which was nothing. He kept talking. “My job was to recruit on my own. I'd planned to stay that way for months. Years.”

He shrugged again, and fell silent. As it dragged on, Morgan's shoulders slumped. She offered a tight, but polite smile. “It's been a pleasure, Warden Blackwall.” She turned away a bit faster than was necessary, still feeling his eyes on her back. It prickled, and the tension and panic came rushing back.

“Inquisition... agent, did you say? Hold a moment.” Morgan stopped, putting on her best blank mask as she turned back to look at him. “The Divine is dead and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking we're absent is almost as bad as thinking we're involved.” There was an earnestness in his eyes, but all Morgan wanted to do was get away from him and the memories he brought up. “I've heard some things about the Inquisition. If you're trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”

Even with tension making her clench her hands so tight that her knuckles ached, Morgan recognized something in the man. Just like all the others that were starting to flock to the Inquisition, he truly wanted to help. Part of her wanted to turn him away, to say no and toss all the memories of her father away with him. But Wardens... She would nearly always respect what the Gray Wardens did. Thinking about Amelia Brosca made it easier to keep listening to him.

“And like I said, there are treaties. This may not be a Blight, but it's bloody well a disaster. Some will honor them. Maybe they could be of use to you. Being a Warden _means_ something to a lot of people.”

He was right. No matter who he might look like, Blackwall was a Gray Warden, and years of learning how to read a lie in someone's words also let Morgan see the truth. This man honestly wanted to be of use, and she wasn't about to turn him away just because of her own personal problems. She offered as real and honest a smile as she could manage. “Warden Blackwall, the Inquisition accepts your offer.”

 

000

 

There was a proper Inquisition camp set up not far off, and they all made their way down, Blackwall trailing behind. Morgan could feel him watching her, and stuck close to Bull. While her conversation with the Warden had been nothing but civil and polite, the qunari was not convinced that she didn’t know that man, even if Blackwall had showed no sign of knowing her. It pissed him off how much tension left her shoulders when he moved to put her in front of him, effectively blocking Blackwall’s view of her.

“Boss,” he said quietly, “you know this Warden?” She stiffened, and he was almost certain he had his answer.

Morgan knew the silence was dragging, and that the Iron Bull was probably drawing all kinds of conclusions. Then it occurred to her that it might put Blackwall in danger for Bull to think she knew _and_ feared the man. She shook her head. “No,” she said, honestly. “He just…” Her shoulders hunched. “He looks almost exactly like my father.”

It was a barely a whisper, even the qunari’s sharp ears struggling to pick out the words. His anger quieted. Morgan’s relationship with her father was obviously complicated, but his opinion of her sire was not off to a good start, considering how she reacted to a man that just _looked_ like him. “We can talk later if you want,” he said. “Share the midnight watch?”

She nearly started crying then and there. Why was he being so kind to her? How could he think she had it in her to be a good leader when just looking at someone brought her to a standstill? _‘You didn’t freeze up in the fight,’_ an uncharacteristically helpful voice said in the back of her head. That thought was enough to help her fight back the tears, and she nodded silently. “Thanks, Bull,” she murmured.

“Any time, Boss.”

 

000

 

 

The main Inquisition camps were better equipped, as they weren’t running around fighting everyone and their mother. The tents were bigger, with a dividing curtain for privacy. And best of all, cots. They were simple canvas things, but it lifted one off the cold ground. Without thinking, Morgan put her things in the same tent that Bull had stored his in. There was a cot on his side as well, of course, but it was the same size as hers, and she found herself wondering if it would be able to support his weight. The trivial thoughts were a welcome distraction.

While Blackwall was a pleasant and polite man—his Marcher accent just as thick as Morgan’s—how similar he was to her father was still unsettling. But he—thankfully—didn’t seem the type to push people, or pester them with personal questions. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to, but thankfully, he never did. After a brief argument with herself over just going to bed in order to avoid any sort of contact with him, Morgan came back out of the tent, still in her coat, but without her armor.

She saw Bull sitting by the fire, back against one of the logs set in a circle around the flames. He had one ankle crossed over the other, and was snacking on some sort of seeds, occasionally tossing one to Hinter. Morgan sat down on the ground next to them both, and Hinter greeted her happily, laying his weight across her legs, gaze still pointed intently in Bull’s direction. Leaning forward, Morgan buried her face in the dog’s neck, scratching under his coat until his leg was thumping the ground.

Several rabbits were roasting over the fire, and a pot of something was hanging over it as well. With it being prepared by the very Ferelden troops at the camp, Morgan wasn’t expecting anything more exciting than root vegetables, but she would take it over nothing else. Sitting up, she looked into the fire silently, just watching the flames.

Bull stayed quiet, too, munching on his seeds and sharing a few with the very attentive dog. Beyond the tents, at a table spread with papers and maps, he could hear Cassandra speaking to the Warden. She was asking question after probing question, trying to draw more information out of him. While the qunari was fairly certain that there was more to the man than his simple, rough exterior, he believed what Blackwall was telling the Seeker; that he really had no idea where all the Wardens had gone.

He knew Morgan could hear them, too, and he tried not to worry when she flinched at the one time Blackwall raised his voice, simply trying to he heard over the irate Seeker. Then their voices faded back to a quiet murmur, and she relaxed. It was painfully easy to guess at Morgan’s past now, after her initial reaction to Blackwall, and her explanation that he looked almost exactly like a human version of her father.

Abuse came in many forms, and each and every one of them left scars of one kind or another. It also shed light on a few of Morgan’s behaviors, which before he’d simply attributed to anxiety. The way she tensed up when two people—like himself and Solas—argued. The way she flinched when she made a mistake, like she was bracing for the reprimand. She apologized too often, as well. All were signs of emotional abuse, at the very least, and Bull had decided that he didn’t want to meet the archer’s sire.

Learning a bit of what she’d been through just made her stubbornly positive outlook even more admirable. When you’d been beaten down over and over again, you began to expect the worst of every situation. And while Morgan was certainly cautious, she still smiled and kept going, even when everything was going to shit.

When Blackwall and Cassandra came back to sit around the fire, Morgan somehow managed to be more silent than before. She focused on picking burrs from Hinter’s fur and the wool parts of his coat. The dog had been welcoming enough to the Warden, but after Morgan’s first reaction, he’d put himself between her and the man, not growling or showing teeth. He was just acting as a barrier. And with Hinter on one side and Bull on the other, some of her tension began to melt away. She still kept her shoulders hunched and her eyes down, but fear no longer pounded in her veins.

Thankfully, everyone was exhausted after days of fighting and sleeping on the cold, hard ground, so no one felt much like talking. The soldiers dished out the meet and stew—mostly potatoes and carrots in a thick broth—and everyone ate in near silence. The only time anyone came up to Morgan directly, it was a younger woman in scout armor, asking if she could share her dinner with Hinter.

Her ruddy face and thick Ferelden lilt made it quite plain _why_ the woman was so taken, and Morgan gave a happy nod, nudging the dog in the scout’s direction. After one backward glance at his master, the dog joined the soldier at her spot, taking bites off her fork as delicately as a lady at court. Bull watched the exchange, and caught the happy glances that the scout threw Morgan’s way. He nudged his boss’s side with a gentle elbow.

“Didn’t think about it before, Boss, but a good looking dog is a great way to get the ladies,” he said, and she nearly choked on her bite of rabbit. “Or boys; either way. There was this time we were helping this lord catch horse thieves, and we were camped at the stables. This shy, gangly kid was playing with a mabari puppy, and the Lord’s daughter—cute blonde thing—came right over and started talking to him. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy so surprised.”

“Hinter’s not a puppy,” Morgan muttered, blushing down at her plate.

“Well, the pretty blond still likes him, and keeps smiling at _you_ when he does something cute, like _that_!” He pointed as Hinter lifted a paw to touch the girl’s knee, asking for another bite. Morgan looked, and caught the beaming smile from the scout, who was indeed blond, and very pretty.

“You’re doing it again,” Morgan said, directing a half smile in Bull’s direction. “Getting me all flustered so I don’t think about shit that’s bothering me.” Feeling that grateful to an admitted foreign spy was more than a bit uncomfortable. Finding said spy physically attractive was even worse.

Bull shrugged innocently. “Just making conversation, Boss,” he said.

Morgan snorted. “Sure, and I absolutely _hate_ dogs.” Her lips pursed and pulled to the side, in a way that showed off the suggestion of a dimple in her right cheek. Fuck, she was snarky _and_ adorable.

He sniffed disdainfully. “You _wound_ me, Lady Cadash,” he said, laying a hand delicately on his anything but delicate chest. “Truly.”

Morgan did her best to stifle the cackle, and just ended up snorting as she tried not to spill her food. “You’re fucking awful!” she muttered, grinning widely.

Bull returned the expression with his best roguish smirk, and Morgan’s chest suddenly felt tight; he was dashing, in a strange, rough sort of way. Maker and Andraste, putting such a distractingly gorgeous man in her path while she had to worry about saving the whole fucking world _had_ to be some sort of punishment for her sins. In any other situation, where she had the opportunity to get to know Bull, she’d probably have asked him to bed her by now. But with her emotions almost always running so high, separating them from a strictly sexual relationship would be next to impossible.

 _‘Maybe_ _someday, when the world’s been saved, I’ll jump him,’_ she thought idly to herself, smiling at the idea. It’d probably be more climbing than jumping.

 _‘If you even survive that long,’_ some cruel, dark part of her pointed out.

It was hard not to instantly start scowling. Her mind loved to throw intrusive thoughts in when they were the least wanted. She decided she’d settle for admiring him and tolerating his terrible puns. And besides, just because she couldn’t bed him or trust him, didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his company. They would—hopefully—be working together for a while yet.

By the time Hinter returned, having been fed more than his fair share from the Inquisition soldiers, Morgan had started working on Varric’s hat. She knew, of course, that even with warm ears, her fellow dwarf would still find something to complain about the next time he went out with them. But she still liked making things for people, so she didn’t really mind.

On the subject of taking city-born folk out into the wild, she _wanted_ to start taking Sera out with her, but a second archer seemed a bit silly. Morgan liked to have two long range fighters—usually herself and a mage—and two close up fighters—usually Bull and Cassandra. It was a balance that seemed to work for everyone, and keeping the party small made it much easier to travel without being noticed. While word of the Inquisition providing aid to everyone they came across was spreading, a large group would look awfully aggressive to an already scared populace.

“You should put a pom-pom on the top,” Bull said, cutting into her thoughts. “And give it little ear flaps with ties that have pom-poms on the end.”

“Are you trying to make him look like one of those silly drawings on Saturnalia banners?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “With the green and red garlands?”

“I like pom-poms, and it’s not like you can make _me_ a hat,” Bull said with a shrug.

“Don’t tell me that; then I’ll have to _try_ ,” Morgan said with a mock groan. She turned a bit where she sat, considering his head and the way his horns grew out of it. “I mean, it could theoretically work if I made slits in the sides for your horns that tied under them.” Then she was thinking about the best way to crochet it, whether she should try to make a pattern, or get some felted wool and just sew something.

“It’s too bad you couldn’t mass produce them. Lots of qunari horns just sweep back, but it’s at all sorts of different angles and stuff.”

“If I ever figure it out, would you steal my secrets and give them to the Qun? So that their soldiers could conquer the world in warm, fuzzy headwear?”

Bull laughed, and her chest tightened again. She really did like being able to make people smile or laugh, even at her own expense. But Bull’s laugh was so spectacular, loud and rough and real. The only real contender in the ‘nicest laugh’ category was Sera, with her giggling cackle. She was still smiling warmly when he started talking again, tone falsely serious.

“No, I’d have to bring you along so you could teach the artisans how to make them, Boss.”

“Can it wait until after we close the hole in the sky? I’d rather get that done first before I get kidnapped again.”

“I did _not_ kidnap you!” Cassandra cut in.

“You kidnapped _Varric_ ,” Morgan teased.

“Only because he tried to run away,” the Seeker sniffed. “We needed his testimony on the events of Kirkwall.”

“And here I thought the Inquisition was a force for good in the world,” Blackwall muttered, eyes crinkling up and his beard hiding his grin. The expression was _nothing_ like Morgan’s father, and she found herself actually able to talk back.

“Sorry, Serah,” she said to him with a complacent shrug, “we’re just a bunch of thugs and brigands, kidnapping dwarves and fighting bandits.”

Blackwall snorted, looking at Morgan curiously. “I’ll be honest, my Lady, I’d heard about you—what happened at the Conclave—but I thought you’d be…”

“Human?” Morgan said, entirely unsurprised and unbothered.

Blackwall looked down, brow furrowed. “Well… yes. It was a foolish thought.”

“No, not really. When someone describes a person to me, without stating a race, I automatically think of them as a dwarf. It’s only natural you’d hear about this person and think they’re human.” She let her mask down; she meant what she said. As long as he wasn’t being a racist, there wouldn’t be a problem.

“Still… I shouldn’t…” He trailed off, the stiff, awkward way he held himself also _nothing_ like Morgan’s father. He seemed like a nice man, and she didn’t want him to think he’d offended her.

“Hey, it’s better than the Iron Bull, here,” she nudged Bull’s leg with her foot, “who made a short joke at me when we first met.”

“ _You’re_ the one who said you were up to ‘ _your ass_ ’ in demons, Boss,” Bull protested, watching her turn a wicked, teasing grin his direction. “You have to admit, that’s not a lot of demons.”

“Nooo, I said _‘our_ asses’,” Morgan corrected, trying not to show how much she was loving Backwall’s aghast look that flicked between her and the qunari. “‘Our’ implies all of us. There are lots of tall people in the Inquisition.”

“I’m not convinced,” Bull said. “Unless someone has a transcript of what was said, I stand by that joke, thank you.”

“You see?” Moran said to Blackwall. “Nothing but thugs and brigands. The lot of us. Except Cassandra.” She was almost certain she saw the Seeker smirk slightly.

“Well I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint your lofty expectations of me, my Lady,” Blackwall said, grinning again under his beard.

Morgan _wanted_ to correct him, she really did. She’d corrected Krem on the way back from the Coast when he kept calling her ‘Your Worship’. But for all his good humor and pleasant smile, him looking like her father made it hard to talk back to him, or tell him outright not to do something. Thankfully, it turned out that she didn’t have to.

“Boss isn’t much for titles, Blackwall,” Bull said, tone casual and friendly. “One of my boys kept accidentally calling her ‘Your Worship’ on the way back to Haven, and she looked ready to dump him in the mud.”

“Oh.” He looked at Morgan seriously, not questioning Bull’s words at all. “Well I’m afraid I don’t know your name, my—sorry.”

The awkwardness was oddly endearing, even if the man still made her a bit nervous. “Morgan Cadash, at your service, Gordon Blackwall. You can call me ‘Lady’ in front of stuffy nobles, if you want. Our ambassador would probably insist on that, actually. Other than that, Cadash or Morgan work just fine.”

“Alright, Cadash it is.” He offered that same awkward smile, before falling back into silence.

Morgan turned in not long after her food was done. When she re-entered the tent, she found that furs had been laid on her cot, as well as folded beside it, making a bed for Hinter. Smiling, she removed her leathers and kicked off her boots, pulling a comb through her hair before she crawled into the furs and blankets. It was softer and warmer than she could have hoped for; there was even a pillow. She was just starting to drift off when Hinter made his way in. He huffed when he realized that he wouldn’t be able to crawl into bed with her, then curled up on the furs set out for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Mark acting the way it does in this chapter is part of my personal headcannon. The mark reacts to breaches in the Veil, as well as gives dwarven Inquisitors the ability to dream. I thought it would probably react to the magic going on around it too. This is boosted by the fact that I think Dwarves CAN connect to the fade, in one way or another, in extenuating circumstances. I don't think the mark would just do the one thing, but it's very noticeable to someone who barely noticed magic before the Mark. I'll flesh it out more later, I promise. Next chapter will have descriptions of emotional and psychological abuse, so just a heads up.


	8. In Hushed Whispers, Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan and Bull have a conversation about her father. Then they have to deal with Mages and desperate Magisters.

In Hushed Whispers, Part One:

 

It was one of the soldiers that roused Morgan and Bull for their shared watch. Morgan stuffed her feet into her boots, tossing her blankets over Hinter before she pulled on her coat.  Stepping out into the chill night air made her glad for her hat and cowl, and she hunched down into the latter, fingers hurrying to close her coat.  Rubbing at her eyes, she glanced over at Bull, and made a face.  He was practically bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the bastard. 

The fire was still burning at the center of camp, and Morgan sat down before it, gratefully accepting the steaming cup of tea given to her by one of the retiring soldiers. Bull put a log on the fire before sitting down beside her with a quiet grunt.  His hand lingered on his left knee for a moment, rubbing slightly before he settled back.  When he was given a cup of tea, his hands made the large mug look tiny.  But he still smiled and winked at the man who gave it to him, color crawling instantly up to the young man’s ears.  Morgan didn’t miss the way Bull’s eye followed the man as he moved away, likely off to his own bed.

“You’d break him,” Morgan muttered into her tea. “At the very least, he’d be walking funny for a week.”

“Hey, if you do it right, it only lasts a day or so,” Bull said. And Maker, his voice was rough with sleep, and had no business being even more attractive than it already was. 

“Try not to put too many of the soldiers out of commission, Bull,” Morgan said with a falsely exasperated sigh and shake of her head.

“If they want to have some fun, who am I to turn them away?” he said, every inch of him oozing selfless compassion.

Morgan’s head fell back on her shoulders and she snorted. “I’m sorry, Bull. You’re sure to be named a saint by the next Divine.”

“Damn straight!” Bull said with a laugh.

They drifted off into a comfortable silence, their eyes flowing over the camp, checking the tree line and listening intently. The animals had gotten used to the noisy camp of humans, elves, dwarves—and now a qunari—so they were going about their nighttime business with no qualms.  Owls hooted and occasionally there was a squeak and rustle of some small creature in the underbrush.  And every now and then, the piercing, shrieking cry of a fox.  Come spring, all of it would be layered over the chatter of insects and peeping of frogs.

As it was, most of the animals had bedded down for the night, probably huddled close together with siblings and mates. Morgan flexed her fingers on the warm cup of tea, watching her breath plume in the air and mingle with the steam from the mug.  It took her sleepy mind a while to remember that Bull had offered to listen if she wanted to talk about her father.  He _looked_ like he’d forgotten, but Morgan found that hard to believe.  Bull was just being Bull, and letting her set the pace for what she knew was going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

For a moment, she considered just staying silent and keeping all that personal information to herself. Only three other people besides herself knew about it, and it would be so damn easy to just stay silent and keep it that way.  Her gaze pulled to the place where Blackwall had been sitting, and she sighed.  With a few gulps, she drained her cup and set it down on the ground between her feet.

She took a breath, then let it out slowly. “My father yelled a lot.  It…”  Another long breath.  “It had me terrified of doing something wrong.  He never hit me, but he’d get so _angry_ that every time he yelled, I was terrified that he finally would.”  She couldn’t look at Bull, but she felt him there, taking up space and just listening.

Morgan’s sigh shook slightly. “Yelled at Mum, too.  She had… problems with money.  She wanted to buy nice things for the house or for the family, and she’d spend too much.  There was nowhere in the house where you couldn’t hear him shouting.”  Shaking her head, she let out a dry, humorless laugh.  “You said that qunari are raised in groups by one… what was the word?” 

“Tamassran,” Bull supplied.

“Did the little kids ever get mad that they couldn’t get their way, and say they hated the Tamassran? Not like they really did, but just out of frustration.”

He nodded.   “Sure.  Think I might have done it once or twice myself.”

“I did it to my father once,” Morgan said, “told him I hated him. It was something stupid, don’t even remember why I said it now, but…  He shot right back that he hated me, too.”  Another, almost spiteful, laugh.  “Can you believe that?  He was so childish that he decided the best way to deal with a bratty child was to say that he hated them…”

“He’s the one that sounds bratty,” Bull muttered without thinking. Morgan made a strangled noise and he scratched the base of his horn.  “Sorry, Boss.”

“Don’t be,” Morgan said, her racing pulse starting to ease as her anxiety slowly abated. “You’re right.  He was— _is_ —childish.  He was the youngest of five from a rich merchant family.  He had a goddamn pony when he was child.”

“Shit. Really?”

“Yup. But all he ever did was complain that it was mean and that it bit him.”

“Probably knew he was an asshole.” She snorted, and it was good to see a bit of a real smile coming through.

Morgan lifted her right hand, wiggling the mangled pinky. “See this?  Did it to myself on accident in the forge.  Smashed my finger with a hammer and tore up the skin.  I didn’t have money to go to the healers myself.  I was alone, and I was so terrified of what my father would do when he found out I’d messed up, that…”  She broke off, and had to swallow.  Only three other people in the world knew the story she was telling.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Boss,” Bull said, and he was offering an easy smile when she looked up at him. Somehow, that reassured her, and Morgan was able to continue.

“I hid it. I did my best to clean and set it and bandage it.  Just said I’d twisted it and he didn’t ask anything more.  But it… it got bad.  The flesh got infected and eventually it hurt too much.  The pain got worse than my fear of him, so I confessed and begged to go to the healer.  He took me, and shouted at me the whole way there.”  She let her hand drop back to her thigh.  “Was about that time that I recognized his shit for what it was.”

“Some people go their whole lives without knowing,” Bull said. Morgan knew he was meaning to be helpful, and smiled at him.  For some reason, the sadness in her eyes caught at Bull, like a friendly cat’s claws catching on fabric as it kneaded happily.

“I was too stubborn to leave right away. Mum left him but I wanted to finish my apprenticeship with him.  She couldn’t work, and I knew I’d need a way to support her when her savings ran out.  Maker knows my father wouldn’t have helped.”  An edge crept into her voice, and her hands curled into fists where they rested.  “I said I was leaving.  Told him I’d run my own smithy and support Mum.  He was so angry that I wouldn’t work for him that he blacklisted me.  I couldn’t find work as a smith in any decent city in the Free Marches.”

Alright. Bull _really_ wanted to punch her father by that point.

“The Carta had cut ties with Mum when she married my father, but offered to put her up and keep her safe if I worked for them. I was good with people, so that’s what I did.”  She let out one final sigh, and her shoulders sagged.  She felt… light.  It was strangely cathartic to talk about it, to vent even just a fraction of her frustrations about Sars Laton.

“So you have family in the Carta?” Bull asked, giving her the option to talk about something else.

Morgan’s real smiled returned then, bright and happy, eyes dancing with memories. “Yeah, but only seven cousins.  Well, there are the first, second, and third cousins, but I don’t really know them.”

“‘ _Only’_ seven?”

“Most dwarva are of the mind that if a woman doesn’t have a trade or job of some kind, she should settle down and have as many children as possible. That usually means big families.  Mum had four sisters, Aliza, Julana, Dora, and Lyssa.”  It felt good to talk about her family, but Morgan wasn’t sure why.  “Aliza had the most kids; Mozele, Harren, Malcom, and Fairn.  Julana had Cassius and Lorellen.  Mum had me, and Dora had Willen.  I think Willen has a daughter of his own now.”

“Damn. And they’re all in the Carta?” Bull asked, and he seemed to genuinely want to know.

“No, Malcom and Lorellen are artists. Cassius works for the Cadash family doing the books; he’s a genius with numbers and gears.  He’d probably kill to get a look at Bianca.  Mozele loves dogs like I do; works for some Ban in his Kennels.  Harren…”  Her face fell slightly, and she kicked the dirt with her foot.  “He’s… in prison.  Did two very stupid things in quick succession and got someone killed.”  She shrugged.  “Farin and Willen are enforcers.  Like I said, my direct relatives aren’t many; but the Cadash are a _big_ family.”

“Do any of them… know about this?” He said ‘this’ gently, not pointing to anything or staring at Morgan’s left hand.

“Mum knows how to keep secrets, but I’m sure that words has reached the Matriarch—Mum’s aunt—about one of her nieces blowing shit up in Ferelden,” Morgan said bitterly, wishing dearly for a proper drink.

“You think they’ll send someone?”

“If they haven’t already,” Morgan said with a shrug. “Already told Sister Leliana to keep an eye out.  If they send anyone, it’ll probably be Willen.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Bull asked.

“He teased me a lot when we were small, but he’s got a soft heart. There’s a lot of other things he could have done with this life.”  She looked wistful, and still a little sad.  “But he’s a good man, as far as enforcers go.”  Her eyes looked over at Bull, lingering on his face, the hard angles made almost menacing by the flickering light and shadow of the camp fire.  He looked… primal.  Heat clenched in her belly, and she dragged her eyes away.  They were alone together…

“So Blackwall looks like your asshole father?”

The question, thankfully, made the heat gutter out. She nodded stiffly without looking up.  “Yup.  My father’s beard was going gray though, and his hair was shorter. _He_ was shorter, obviously.  But… yeah.  I’m sorry I froze up.  Good leaders shouldn’t do that.  Gets people killed.” 

Bull’s big hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, making him instantly pull it back. He continued anyway.  “The second it mattered, the _second_ lives were in danger, you came out of it.  You didn’t let it control you when it mattered.”  Morgan looked up at him and he smiled, shadowed face an odd mix of fierce and gentle.

She was mortified to find a lump rising in her throat, and scrubbed hurriedly at her eyes. She sniffled once, and coughed, trying to clear her throat.  Bull was right, and Morgan knew it.  The smile she offered was a shy one; she was still unused to actual praise.  Guilt twisted around her gratitude like thorns; he was a spy, hardly worth of hearing details of her family. 

Panic surged, and Bull’s brows furrowed and she turned to face him, pushing to her feet. With him still sitting on the log, they were almost eyelevel.  “You can’t send a word of my family back in your reports,” she said, trying to keep the fearful shake out of her voice.  “They have nothing to do with this mess, or how I’m handling things.”  There was an edge to her voice, her words a fucking _command_.  Bull might not have had brothers and sisters and cousins, but he knew what it meant to have a family.

“The Ben-Hassrath are more interested in what you’re doing now.”

He saw her mask crack, anger as hot as Vivienne’s was cold. “That’s not an ‘okay, I won’t’, and you know it!  You _will_ leave my family out of the reports, Bull,” she snarled quietly.  “Talk about my father all you fucking want, but if the Qun wants to dig around in the Cadash family dirt, they can get their info elsewhere. _Not_ from you, not from my—!”  She broke off, and bit her lip.  She’d been about to say ‘friend’.  The mask went back on and her anger slipped away, back into the depths.  “Sorry, Bull.”  She sat back down, running her fingers through her hair.

“You’re allowed to protect your family without apologizing, Boss,” Bull said softly.  He was learning, and had made his voice as calm and even as he could, not giving a thing away. 

“If I sigh any more I think I’ll explode,” Morgan muttered. “Thank you for listening, Bull.”

“Any time, Boss.”

Morgan rolled her eyes and sighed.

 

000

 

 

Morgan was quite unused to waking to the sound of people already up and about. It was still quite dark out when she emerged, fully dressed from her tent, but there was light in the east.  Stepping through the pluming clouds of her own breath, Morgan pulled her hat down over her ears and hunched down until her cowl covered her nose.  She could feel people pause to look at her as she passed.  All the soldiers knew that the Herald was a dwarf, and Morgan seemed to be the only dwarf in the camp.  She couldn’t really blame them for staring.

As she walked, she thought that maybe she should make an effort not to look so cold and grumpy. Maybe look more regal?  A powerful shiver decided her that, no, she would _not_ unhunch herself from her cowl, and pulled it up a bit more.  She found the closest brazier full of fire, and stood just out of reach of the flames.  In winter, she preferred mittens, but that wasn’t an option when firing a bow.  Flexing her fingers, she extended her gloved hands towards the fire, making a quiet noise of satisfaction. 

A few moments later, a soldier appeared with a mug of tea, which Morgan took with genuine thanks. And when she sipped, she realized that there was milk and honey mixed in with the strong brew, can thanked the soldier again, bringing her head out of her cowl to smile.  To her surprise, the young, freckled man _blushed_ , bowing and making a hurried excuse about duties to attend to. 

The smile faded and she watched his retreating back with furrowed brows. She could grasp that speaking to—and being thanked by—the ‘Herald of Andraste’ might make some people nervous.  She didn’t see herself that way, but others did, so she understood.  But the blushing?  People didn’t _blush_ at _her._ She wasn’t some confident rogue, winking and paying pretty compliments.  She’d just said ‘thank you’. 

Still far too sleepy to continue contemplating the matter, Morgan took another drink of tea. It was _almost_ too hot to drink, and she felt the heat of it rush down her throat to curl around her stomach.  Another smile curved her lips, and she hummed her satisfaction again.  Rebka Cadash had instilled a great love of tea in her daughter, either black with lemon, or with milk and honey.  Morgan liked strong tea, but hated when it steeped too long and got bitter.  The mug in her hands was as close to perfect as she’d had in a long time.

She heard footsteps on the grass behind her; long strides and heavy steps despite how little noise they made. It was Bull.  When he stepped up beside her, he was as shirtless as ever, but was wearing a pair of brown and orange striped trousers instead of the maroon and moss green of the past few days.  Morgan met his eyes, looked down at his pants, and looked back, wrinkling her nose.

 “If Ma’am sees you in those, and _doesn’t_ immediately set them on fire, it’ll be a miracle,” she declared.

 “They don’t exactly sell clothes my size off the rack,” Bull pointed out.

 “That just means you chose that fabric.  On _purpose_ ,” Morgan muttered, trying to hide the tug at the corners of her mouth.

 “You’re mean when you wake up, Boss,” Bull said, pretending to look affronted.

 “My mother was an artist.  Your color scheme offends my delicate sensibilities.”

 “Not my fault all you heathens outside the Qun don’t have any sense of real fashion,” Bull sniffed.

Morgan snorted, tried to breathe her tea, and began to cough violently. Chuckling, Bull took her mug and patted her back, grinning down at her as she glared back at him with watering eyes.  When she could finally breathe again, she retrieved her mug with quiet dignity, only cracking a grin when Bull gave in and laughed aloud.   

 “Just don’t let Lady Vivienne hear you say that,” Morgan finally said.

 “Oh, I heard, dear,” came the chilling, slightly amused voice of the enchanter.  “Don’t fret.  It’s not Iron Bull’s fault he’s lived such a deprived life, poor thing.”

Bull huffed, but said nothing. Morgan’s eyes glittered at him over her mug, teasing and bright.  He was starting to really like when they did that, and he’d be lying if he hadn’t imagined those green-hazel eyes looking up at him while her lips were stretched around his cock.  He exhaled hard through his nose and stretched his arms over his head until his shoulders strained.  Morgan’s eyes widened slightly, lingering on the shifting of muscle under the scarred skin.  Bull was grinning widely when he lowered his arms, and she put her face back in her tea, the tips of her ears burning.

The Herald of Andraste was inescapably adorable. Shit.  It was that delicate sort of adorable, making her appear, at first glance, innocent and vulnerable.  But Bull knew that she was neither of those things.  But there _was_ a fragility to her; a side she’d been willing to share with him.  She hadn’t exactly told him her entire life story, but she’d admitted that there were only three other people in the world that knew more than he did.  Sister Leliana was an outlier and had not been counted. 

His grin softened to a smile. He liked her, he really did.  There were cracks in her mask, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.  What’d he’d seen beneath the smiles and agreeable personality was a woman much stronger, and infinitely more stubborn than he had expected.  He remembered that first glimpse he’d had, on the beach.  She’d been raw from the fight, fighting her nerves about the death she and her companions had brought down.  Bull had seen how deeply it had shaken her, and had expected frailty; expected her to be delicate.

And, in ways, he supposed she was. She was soft-hearted and kind, nearly to a fault.  But she refused to let it be a weakness, turning that softness that the Qun might have frowned on into one of her greatest strengths.  She’s helped enough of the little people that they would know her, and would tell tales of how good and kind the Herald was.  The stories would leave the realm of reality soon enough, but the gratitude and belief underneath would remain the same. 

And, buried even more deeply than her softness, was some of the sharpest, most violent anger that Bull had encountered. She had it pushed down so deep she didn’t even really see it herself, and when it _did_ come out, it terrified her.  But Bull had never seen it directed at someone that wasn’t truly deserving.  She hurt those who deserved it, and, though she would deny it fiercely, enjoyed it.  There was nothing wrong with that.  Bull just hoped he’d be able to convince her of that.  He’d have to, if she was ever going to be any good with daggers.

Morgan had finished her tea, and was staring longingly at the rashers of bacon the troops were laying out in a massive cast iron skillet. Others were chopping potatoes into small chunks, and dumping them into _another_ skillet, sprinkling them, generously with salt pepper, and a huge chunk of golden butter.  Bull’s stomach growled.  Morgan grinned, opening her mouth to tease, when _her_ stomach made an even louder growling noise.

 “Oh, hush, you,” she muttered at the offending organ.  She set her mug on a table littered with papers, and started unbuttoning her coat.  “You said you’d teach me how to use daggers better, right?  Is this a good time?”  She hung her coat on one of the empty banner stands.  Bull realized that one of the patches on the elbow was emblazoned with the Kirkwall coat of arms, and smiled fondly, thinking of Krem.

There was a makeshift sparring ring made on some flat-ish ground, marked by a circle of stones. Bull nodded over at it.  “Meet you over there, Boss.”  He ducked back into the tent, and when he came back out, Morgan had stripped down to just breeches, boots, and her wool tunic.  She was currently on the ground, legs spread out to either side at a very obtuse angle as she leaned first one way, and then the other.  Then, without appearing to strain even a little, she leaned straight forward, flattening her chest to the ground.

Bull swallowed. Damn, she was… _bendy_.  Trying to shake off thoughts of all the _other_ activities that her flexibility could be applied to, he walked over, rolling his shoulders.  When she saw him, Morgan hopped up on her feet, quick as anything.  Bendy _and_ fast.  But he’d already known the fast part.  He disguised the shake of his head as another stretch, and handed her a pair of blunt, weighted practice daggers.

Morgan took them as a smith would, rather than as a fighter, examining how they had been crafted and put together. She flexed her fingers on the grip, feeling how they fit her hands.  Her fingers traced down the fuller, feeling the blunted edge that was covered in old nicks from hard use.  They were balanced like normal daggers, and Morgan had made more than a few.  She knew enough to recognize that a heavy lead core had been added in the handles, as well as disks of lead folded into the blunt blades.

 “Learn to work with heavy ones, and the real thing will be lighter than a nug,” Bull said. 

The dwarf wished sincerely that she was able to lift just one eyebrow. “I’ve known some very fat nugs,” she said.

 Bull snorted and rolled his eyes.  “Fine.  What do you call those little mouse things?  The tiny ones without tails and a long nose that’ll try to attack you?”

Morgan was momentarily frozen by the idea of a shrew—no bigger than her thumb—squealing madly and trying to bite Bull’s toe. She cackled.  “A shrew,” she snorted, half coughing in her laughter.  “One tried to bite you, didn’t it?”  She was practically wheezing.

He made a show of frowning, crossing his arms over his chest, and unintentionally—or maybe _in_ tentionally—making his muscles look even more impressive.  “Hey, I was naked and it was angry and _didn’t_ want to step on the little bastard.”  His face cracked into a grin as Morgan started laughing in earnest, the image of a naked Bull trying to avoid the wrath of a tiny, brown, and enraged rodent nearly making her double over.

Without warning Bull lunched, the heel of his hand striking Morgan on the shoulder as his ankle hooked behind both of hers. She went sprawling, but brought the daggers up instantly, pointed at Bull in case he followed her down.  He held out a hand, grasping her wrist when she extended her arm, and pulled her to her feet.  Morgan looked up at him ruefully.  He didn’t have to say a word.  “I’ll pay better attention, then.”

 “Good.”  Bull took several steps backwards, putting distance between them.  Then he gestured her forward with one hand.  “Alright, Boss.  Show me what you _do_ know, and we’ll go from there.”

 

000

 

Morgan crashed to the ground with a knee in her back, one of Bull’s hands pressing the side of her face into the dirt. The other had her wrists above her head, shoulders aching with the strain.  She still had both of her daggers, and there was a thin scratch forming on the side of Bull’s thick neck.  She tried very hard _not_ to think of Bull’s body hovering over hers, pressing her down with his knee and large hands.  She tried, but it didn’t work.  It was impossible _not_ to.  One of his hands spanned both of her wrists easily, and his rough palm was warm against her cheek.

Then the weight was gone, and he was pulling her back to her feet. They were both panting slightly, but only Morgan had worked up a sweat.  She instantly stepped back, ready to go again, even though her hip was throbbing and her lungs burned.  Bull shook his head.  “That’s enough for today.  Let’s get some food.”  As they left the training ring, Morgan offered the daggers back to Bull.  “Nah, you keep ‘em.  Practice what I showed you alright?”

Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but then the were the call for food went up, and her stomach growled loudly.

 

000

 

Morgan burned the tip of her tongue on the first bite of potato. She also didn’t care in the slightest.  For all that she considered typical Ferelden food quite bland, nothing quite compared to potatoes fried in butter and salt.  They were soft all the way through, and crispy on the outside.  The bacon was saltier than she liked, but she devoured her share with gusto.  Bull ate an astounding amount, and Morgan was sure she saw the troops in charge of cooking panic slightly as they rushed to add more food to the pan.  The qunari could probably put away three whole roast nugs in a single sitting without any discomfort.

And when she thought about it, it made sense. In order to keep up the hundreds of pounds of muscle he carried around, Bull would have to eat an astounding amount.  Her pondering broke into a smile.  Despite the simple fare, Bull ate each bite as if it were a feast prepared by the most highly trained chefs, and complimented the cooks on their skill.  It was a good practice to stay on the good side of the people in charge of the food.  He was still eating while Morgan nursed her third cup of tea.

Hinter, already having begged a stomach full of food from the soldiers around the camp, sat attentively in front of the qunari, hoping that a few pieces might fall on the ground. He’d done the same to Morgan, but had switched to Bull when the dwarf had put away her plate and cutlery.  Every now and then, Hinter would raise a paw and put it delicately on Bull’s knee, looking meaningfully between qunari and plate and back again.

 “No,” Bull finally said.  “You _had_ your breakfast.  I _saw_ you.”

Hinter huffed softly, cheeks puffing up with the exhale of breath.

 “You can’t fool me,” Bull insisted, holding the plate away and taking a large bite.

Morgan nearly snorted into her tea as the dog looked to her, huffing again, as if to say ‘make him share, mother.’ She shook her head.  “He’s right.  I saw Blackwall giving you half his bacon.”  Somewhere, a few yards away and behind a tent, a male voice coughed and cleared his throat awkwardly.  With a huge, dramatic sigh, the dog gave up, finding a large stick to chew on as he laid out at Morgan’s feet.

Cassandra approached, already in her armor, and tucking her whetstone back into her belt pouch. “Morgan.”  She shifted slightly as Morgan beamed at her, happy beyond words that the Seeker was calling her by name.  Cassandra nodded to Bull before looking back to the dwarf.  “With the roads mostly clear, I was wondering where you wanted to go next.”

It still felt strange for Cassandra to defer to her for direction. But they had waited long enough.  She took one last gulp of tea, and lifted her head.  “We should head for Redcliffe,” she said.

The older woman blinked, her quick mind latching instantly onto Morgan’s intention. “You… mean to approach the mages.”  She had meant it to sound like a question, to clarify, but it came out as a halting statement, words stilted as she tried to keep her personal opinion down.

Morgan squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Yes.  I don’t think it would be wise to let them just sit there, at the mercy of anyone that might happen by.  Suppose an enemy offered them sanctuary in return for their services?”  She had thought about this for a long time, and knew just how to phrase it to Cassandra.  She also knew that Vivienne was listening.  “It would be better to try to bring them into the fold of the Inquisition than to let them sit out there alone.  There are children and the elderly with them, to be sure, and I don’t like the idea of leaving them at the mercy of renegade Templars.  Especially after the way they left in Val Royeaux.”

It was obvious that Cassandra was considering her words carefully. Vivienne had appeared at the edge of Morgan’s vision, but just watched in silence.  With her heart pounding in her chest and her hands sweating, Morgan watched Cassandra with a cool, blank expression.  Bull said nothing, quietly impressed with the way Morgan was laying out her plan.  Cassandra finally broke the silence. 

 “Yes, I agree.  We should at least speak to Grand Enchanter Fiona.  She has proved herself a reasonable woman.  And if they prove unwilling, we can always speak to the Templars.”

Morgan smiled brightly. “Excellent,” she said.  Glancing in Vivienne’s direction, she waited.

 “Do as you please, my dear,” the mage said airily, wearing a mask of her own.  “So long as your hand is no longer bothering you.”  The quiet prod at the Mark’s strange reaction to magic did _not_ go unnoticed.

Morgan remembered how Vivienne had introduced herself, as ‘leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas’. Loyalty was admirable, but all Morgan was able to see was a woman who’d been brought up thinking that just by being alive, she was a danger to others.  She knew it was more complicated than just that, but it still made Morgan hate the Chantry even more than she already had. 

 

 

000

 

With fresh supplies and potions, they struck out from the camp near Lake Luthias. The newly formed scar on the back of Morgan’s head kept itching, and her hip was aching more than usual.  And, even though it had been close to an hour since speaking with Cassandra, her heart was still racing.  She was also still struggling to accept how easily Cassandra had agreed with her.  It was actually even more terrifying than the idea of bringing the subject up in the first place.

They walked in a loose sort of line, Cassandra and the map going first, Morgan and then Bull. Then Vivienne, and finally, Blackwall at the rear.  As the path started to slope downwards, and let them between high peaks of rock, Morgan’s hands itched for her bow.  She still remembered how torn the land just beyond the Crossroads had been, and knew that there was no way all of the bodies had been removed or burned.  The smell lingered in the air, smoky and foul.  It was made worse by the knowledge that Morgan’s arrows were among those sticking out of the corpses.

Again, that fierce, sharp sense of pride surged up. She had killed nearly all of them with a single shot, arrows nearly always finding their mark.  She had killed all her enemies, and she’d been _good_ at it.  The fact that she enjoyed it was sitting there, deep in the dark, pushed down and down and _down_ as she refused to acknowledge it.  When a sweat broke out on her upper lip despite the chill of the air, Morgan’s hand dug into one of her belt pouches. 

Her fingers closed around the familiar shape, and she let out a soft breath. She pulled the glove off her right hand, taking the metal ring between her fingers.  Circled on the ring were seven brightly colored glass beads.  The ring in her left hand, she rolled the beads across her bare right palm.  She let out another breath, almost closing her eyes as the familiar texture rolled over her skin.  The gentle stimulation helped to even out her breathing, the soft click of the beads as they moved together equally soothing.

She had almost completely forgotten about her beads, and was just glad that they hadn’t been among the things destroyed when everything was blown to pieces. Needing extra reassurance, she put her hand in the same pouch, feeling the smooth surface of her worry stone wrapped in wool.  Life was so much easier when she had something to occupy her hands.  She had seen a requisition for puzzle boxes to help occupy the troops, and was hoping to be able to have one made for herself. 

Bull, walking slightly to the side, so as to stay out of Morgan’s blind spot, saw her playing with the beads, and was struck by an odd feeling of déjà vu. He’d seen people doing that before.  Not with beaded circles exactly, but with other small items or habits.  Dalish counted stepping stones on paths she walked more than once, and Skinner was always carving something.  He’d known others that had chewed on necklaces when they’d been nervous, rather than chew their nails down to the quick.  A little more understanding of the Dwarf filtered down to him.  The crochet made even more sense now; keeping her hands busy helped keep her anxiety under control.

And he wasn’t going to judge. There was something exceptionally satisfying about peeling dirt and gunk off the groves in his axe.  It wasn’t the same, but he understood, at least a little.

Unfortunately, Morgan felt his gaze, and hurriedly stuffed the beads back into her pouch. She instantly felt silly for being embarrassed, but still guilty at being caught.  She knew that her mind simply didn’t work the same way other peoples did.  A surgeon had once suggested drilling a hole in the side of her skull to let out the ‘bad humors’.  Morgan had half expected her mother to strike the man.

Another healer, who was regarded as half-mad by her colleagues, said that it was because Morgan’s body didn’t make chemicals and hormones the way it should have. There were of course magical treatments for such things, but with her natural resistance to magic, none of them had been particularly helpful to Morgan, and she had been forced to come up with her own coping methods, some of them considerably less than healthy.  At the memory, the scars hidden on her wrists—and a few on her thighs—started to itch.

To distract herself, Morgan picked at a loose thread on the edge of her coat. She had ordered supplies to make herself proper armor, and had started some rough plans for armor that bore the flaming eye and sword insignia of the Inquisition.  While she herself was still skirting around the possibility of _maybe_ believing—just a little—that she’d been chosen by Andraste, nearly everyone in the Inquisition believed it.  She should look like she belonged.  Maker, she was setting herself up to lead… to be an Inquisitor.  The thought squashed any need to scratch or pick.

 _‘If they asked… I don’t know if I could turn them down,’_ Morgan realized, face going pale.  She wanted to help; she was the only one that could seal the Rifts, and that made her important.  She was _good_ at sealing Rifts and killing demons.  She was _good_ at playing the part of the Herald, humble and grateful to be chosen by the Bride of the Maker.  That was something she could do, so long as she stubbornly ignored the possibility that they might be _right_.

Hinter glued himself to her side, putting his body under her hand. Without thinking, her fingers curled around the edge of his coat.

The idea of being a real leader, making decisions that meant the life and death of people she would likely never meet… She didn’t know if she could sacrifice people like that.  Many assumed that if someone didn’t value their own life, then they didn’t place any value on the lives of others.  It was quite the opposite for Morgan.  While logically, she knew that she was important and necessary, she always saw everyone else as mattering more than herself.  Bull had told her he thought she could be a good leader, but Morgan wasn’t sure if she really could make those tough decisions. 

 _‘Mages,’_ she reminded herself.  _‘Focus on the mages. That’s plenty to worry about just now.  The rest can wait.’_   It was also easier to think about what others were going to be thinking.  She glanced over her shoulder at Bull.  He hadn’t said a word yet, and his silence was starting to prick at Morgan’s anxiety.  She _liked_ Bull, and didn’t want him to be upset with her.  While he hadn’t said anything outright, she’d noticed he was different when they were fighting mages.  He was fine around Solas or Vivienne, but _enemy_ mages…  He fought differently.  There were no joyous shouts of victory, only serious, determined silence.  And considering he was a veteran of Seheron, Morgan couldn’t exactly blame him, and it pained her that she might be causing him to relive something painful.

Falling back, she began to walk beside him, fingers curling around the straps of her pack. For a while, neither of them said anything, just walking in silence behind Cassandra.  Bull heard Morgan start to speak several times, the soft intake of breath faltering as she struggled to find the words for whatever she wanted to say.  When she did finally get the words out, they actually took him by surprise.

 “Sorry to drag you into this, Bull,” she muttered, looking stubbornly at the ground in front of her.

 “You’re not dragging me anywhere, Boss,” he said.  “I _do_ get paid, after all.”

 “But you don’t…”  She fumbled for words again, voice lowering.  “You don’t _like_ fighting mages.”  She chanced a glance up at him and saw him looking at her shrewdly.  Her cheeks colored slightly.  “You fight them differently.  You’re more interested in beating them than enjoying the fight.  You don’t want to give them a chance to, well…”  Trailing off, she shrugged.  Again, she glanced up, hoping that she hadn’t made things worse.  “Sorry.”

Bull’s expression was different, and she couldn’t quite put a name to it. Then he grinned, and shook his head.  It would take some getting used to; being around a woman almost as observant as he was.  “Don’t be sorry for remembering details about people; it’s a good skill, one you should never stop practicing.”  She smiled shyly at him.  “And you’re not wrong.”

“You don’t have to come with us, you know,” Morgan offered hesitantly. “Cassandra’s an army all by herself, and Blackwall’s proven himself more than able.  If you don’t want—”

“I’m your bodyguard,” Bull said firmly. “I go where you go.”

Morgan stomped down on the warm rush of gratitude; he was being _paid_ to do the job.  Painting him that cold and callous instantly made her feel worse.  “I won’t force you to go anywhere, Bull.”  She knew what she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard.  “I don’t…  It’s… _hard_ for me to trust people.  But I like you, and I don’t want you to…  Nugshit.  I don't want you— _anyone_ to… to be more miserable than absolutely necessary.  I’m not sure all misery can be avoided in our current situation.”

He really shouldn’t be finding her so adorable. And while she should focus more on the task at hand rather than her companions’ comfort, such unrepentant kindness was rare.  It was refreshing, actually, and a good quality for a leader, in a way.  Keeping up morale and making sure that all necessities were provided was important.  People would fight a lot harder if they believed that their leader cared about them.  And Morgan wouldn’t be pretending either.  They were fighting in _her_ name, dedicating their lives and deaths to her work.  She cared for each and every one.

Morgan was aware of that herself. She accepted reports of scouts being killed in the field with a stony face, and was always glad that one of the Advisors took the burden of writing a letter to the fallen’s next of kin.  She had always been good with putting names to faces and remembering, but so many that died were those she had never met, and she struggled to remember.  The second week she’d started a list of names—each with a little note beside it—and the list now covered several sheets of paper hidden in the desk in her room.

And there she was, getting ready to take a whole slew of new names under her protection. It was hard not to laugh at herself, getting so worked up about people she might forget.  Training told her that they had nothing to do with her, so she could mind her business.  She’d hated that part of the Carta, and was bound by it no longer.  It didn’t matter if the Dasher set a price on her head, thinking she’d betrayed them.  Josephine _and_ Leliana had assured Morgan that her mother would be taken care of.  Morgan liked the ambassador quite a lot, but the spymaster’s word meant more. 

Now that she had her freedom, Morgan would protect it fiercely. Even though she doubted her cousins would do her any real harm if sent after her, she’d still fight with everything she had if they tried.  The Dasher could go fuck herself with dragonthorne. 

 

000

 

They reached Redcliffe Road around noon. “If we stay at Redcliffe long enough to eat at the tavern, don’t eat the cheese,” Blackwall warned.  “Just… don’t.”  He practically shuddered.

“Pity,” Morgan mumbled, thinking of the huge wheels of cheese stored in the cellar back at Haven. She flexed her hands and cracked her knuckles, hiding the fact that her left had been tingling more and more the closer they got to Redcliffe.  It was reminiscent to the way magic had drawn at the Mark when they fought the apostates in the forest.  She was suddenly very much regretting not bringing Solas along.  The idea of speaking to Vivienne about it was… terrifying, to say the least.  What if she said that Morgan was dangerous and had to be locked up again?  What if—?

She shook her head to stop the thoughts. She wanted to keep imagining that Vivienne was the sort of person who understood how terrible captivity was, and that she would not inflict it on another without cause.  But then, she thought that mages needed to be kept in towers.  Panic twisted in her gut and settled like a stone.  Before long, her chest was tight and her heart was pounding.  She wanted to run again.  Or cut off her hand.

 _That_ thought lasted only a moment.  The Mark was needed. _Morgan_ was needed.  She wondered if she’d ever get used to the idea that she was _wanted_ , even _necessary_.  The thought that she could be _important_ —to anyone besides her mother—seemed so out of reach, like a fairy story.  And yet, the evidence of exactly that thrummed and glowed in her palm. 

She _mattered_.

 

000

 

The Rift at the gate didn’t feel unusual at first. There was a sharp pulse in her left hand, the Mark’s glow brightening sharply for a moment before demons began pouring out.  It was when she ducked into Stealth to flank a Greater Shade that she stepped into the strange circle of light.  The moment her foot hint the ground, she felt like she was moving in water.  Her limbs became heavy, still pushed by the momentum of her gait but dragged to a snail’s pace.  She jerked back, ordering Hinter back to Vivienne’s side.

She struck a demon across the face with her bow before putting an arrow in its eye, spinning to look at the battlefield. There were more of those circles scattered in front of the gate, and she saw Iron Bull scurry across one with unnatural speed.  It wasn’t just that he was running hard, but it was like his motion had been sped up.  The look on his face the moment he was clear was a cross between angry and something dangerously close to panic.  Blackwall was caught in the middle of one, unable to properly avoid the blasts a wraith was sending at him.  Morgan lit an explosive arrow and dispatched the barely corporeal creature, raining arrows around the Warden until he was free.

 “Vivienne!” Morgan turned as she yelled, hoping for some aid.

 “I can’t dispel them, whatever they are!” the mage shouted back, frost clinging to the edges of her robes as she continued to fight.

The demons weren’t particularly strong, but the fight had to end, quickly. Firing a leaping shot as she dove back, Morgan thrust her left hand forward, and _pushed_.  Her veins buzzed, and her skin felt like it was being pulled tight over her bones.  She bit her lip until it bled, trying to split her attention between the Rift and the battle.  Vivienne appeared in front of her in a twist of space, Hinter racing up at her heels.

“Do it!”

Cold rushed up Morgan’s arm, twisting through the pulse buzz of the Mark. Then the energy snapped back, the pulse dispatching weakened demons and leaving only a few wraiths.  They all died quickly, and Morgan heard the distant yell of a Redcliffe soldier as the Rift finally closed.

“What…the _fuck_ … was that?” she panted, wiping her bloody lip on the back of her hand.

“Fucking unsettling is what _that_ was,” Bull muttered.  If he’d been a cat, Morgan imagined that his tail would have been puffed up to double the size.

Cassandra was staring at the place in the air where the Rift had been. “The Rift…  It twisted time around itself.”  She sounded almost impressed. 

Vivienne rolled her shoulders as she approached, as if trying to shake off a chill. “The Veil is thinner here than in Haven,” she said, and Morgan could only guess about how that felt.   “And not just that.  It has been… altered.  I cannot be certain how without further examination.  Something I very much doubt we have time for.”  Even with the Rift closed, the Mark was buzzing with energy, and she balled her hand into a tight fist.

“With so many mages in Redcliffe, someone _has_ to know something,” Morgan said hopefully.  “We’ll ask Enchanter Fiona.”

“A fine idea, my dear.” Vivienne was as guarded as Morgan had ever seen her, and shit _had_ to be bad if the unshakeable Madame de Fer was nervous. 

“Maker’s mercy!” cried one of the Ferelden soldiers, jogging back up the path towards the gate. “It’s over?  Open the gate!”  She seemed wholly unconcerned with the people that had just closed the Rift.  As the portcullis was drawn up, creaking and groaning, the Inquisition party advanced. 

A scout wearing Inquisition armor met them inside, locking onto Morgan. He bowed his head and thumped his fist over his heart.  “We spread word the Inquisition was coming, but you should know that no one was expecting us.”  His dark skin was dusty from the road.

Morgan’s brows rose, warning bells going off in the back of her mind. They hadn’t just said that they were coming; they had been _invited_.  “No one?  Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”  Fiona hadn’t seemed the type to make such an invitation lightly, especially when the Inquisition—though still small—could have conscripted the mages and taken them, willing or not.

The scout made a sort of helpless motion with his arms. “If she was, she hasn’t told anyone.  We’ve arranged to use the tavern for negotiations.”

Cassandra’s eyes were narrowed, suspicious expression open and unguarded. “You are certain?  Perhaps only—”

A young elvhen man cut them off, rushing up with the hurried air of polite nervousness. “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies!” he rushed out.  He was wearing mage robes, with the feathered pauldrons common among apostates.  Though, all mages were technically apostates now.  The young man continued, shifting uncomfortably as all attention settled on him.  “Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived.  He’s expected shortly.”

Morgan heard the creak of leather as Bull stiffened behind her. For a moment, she felt even worse.  First he had to deal with mages, now a Tevinter fucking Magister.  And why the _fuck_ was a Magister in Ferelden, anyway?  Surely Queen Anora wouldn’t just let a Magister take up residence in her home?  Cassandra looked positively murderous, and Vivienne’s gaze could have turned a rage demon to ice without a drop of magic.  Blackwall just looked frustrated and sad.

The poor young man wilted under the stares. “You can certainly speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime!” he offered.

Cassandra opened her mouth, likely to ask a serious of sharp and aggressive questions. Morgan held out a hand, offering the man a gentle smile.  “That’s very gracious,” she said.  “Thank you.”  He looked so relieved not to be yelled at that it was heartbreaking.  She gave him another smile as he led them forward.

Bull was walking closer to her than before, and if she hadn’t been bundled up in her coat, she probably would have been able to feel the heat coming off him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him scanning their surroundings, face blank, eyes constantly in motion.  The hair on the back of Morgan’s own neck was prickling, and goose-flesh covered her arms despite the warmth of her coat.  This was very, _very_ bad. 

Fiona had seemed genuinely interested in speaking with them in Val Royeaux, confident in her decision, and hardly likely not to at least say ‘yes, I did invite them, bring them in!’ And Magisters…  Morgan _tried_ not to judge, she really did.  But it was difficult when all the Magisters she’d met treated everyone else like shit, and elves worse than the most abhorred animals.  She was sure that there were members of the Magisterium that _weren’t_ horrible racist, power hungry bastards, but she hadn’t met one yet.

“I do not like this, Morgan,” Cassandra murmured.

“I don’t think anyone does,” Morgan agreed. “But it’s not like we can just go home and leave a Magister in charge of Redcliffe.  If that’s what’s going on.”

“Fuckin’ ‘Vints,” Bull muttered darkly. “They’re real good at causing problems.”

“I also wanna know why no one knew that we were coming,” Morgan said.

He grunted. “Yeah.  That, too.”

 

000

 

As expected, Redcliffe was full of mages. Young, old, human, elvhen; all manner of people were represented.  One thing that they had in common was that they looked scared.  They let the Inquisition pass, some watching curiously, and others outright glowering.  Morgan and Bull drew the most attention, the words ‘herald’ and ‘Andraste’ fliting through conversations. 

“There’s no sign of the arl’s men,” Blackwall muttered, hands hooked in his belt to look casual while still staying close to his sword.

He was right. There were only a few soldiers scattered along the path down to the village, and once they were among the buildings, it was nothing but mages as far as the eye could see.  Morgan was still learning about Fereldan nobility, but she knew that the arl of Redcliffe was a stubborn, willful man that hadn’t abandoned his land even during the Blight.  She found it highly unlikely that a few hundred apostates and a Magister would do what scores of the undead had failed to.

By the time they reached the huge griffon statue in the middle of the village, Morgan’s left hand was aching. She had never known what magic felt like, but she was fairly certain that it was the only explanation for why her Mark was acting the way it was.  She wanted to kick herself for not sending word for Solas.  It was shite timing, bringing two very pro-Circle individuals along, plus a qunari that had fought against blood mages in Seheron. 

 _‘Maker, I should have brought Varric and Solas instead…’_ But she knew that it was better this way.  She would have had to wait for the others to arrive at camp, and now that they knew that a _Magister_ was in charge, waiting had ceased to be an option.  She flexed her fingers, curling and uncurling them.  Fighting demons was so much easier.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though. There were mage children playing games under the watchful eyes of older mages, practicing lighting candles or starting campfires.  It was particularly heartwarming to see a little girl jumping for joy when she succeeded in creating a small floating orb of blue light.  Morgan suck a cautious look at Vivienne, and was almost certain she saw the edge of the older woman’s full mouth twitch upwards slightly.

Morgan found it impossible not to think of the young mage girl murdered by Templars. She found herself wishing that she’d sent them to Haven rather than just guided them to the Crossroads.  Had the rest of the group made it alright?  Did they know what had happened?  She began to scan the crowd for familiar faces, chewing on her lip until the fresh scab failed and started bleeding again.  When that happened, she started chewing the inside of her cheek.

The elf, who was named Lysas, graciously opened the door to the Gull and Lantern tavern and gestured them inside. Morgan didn't want Hinter to act on her own nervousness, so she ordered him to stay outside. Surprisingly, the tavern was filled with the usual sort of chatter and talk, though it was almost exclusively mages.  The man and woman behind the bar looked nervous.  A familiar brown face and green eyes caught Morgan’s attention, and the group moved towards Fiona.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition,” she said formally, without a trace of recognition in her voice or face, except for when she saw Vivienne, to whom she nodded respectfully. “First Enchanter Vivienne.”

“My dear Fiona, it’s been too long since we last spoke.” Morgan couldn’t decide if Vivienne was being sincere or not.  “You look dreadful!  Are you sleeping well?”

Fiona seemed unfazed by the comment, and her gaze settled on Morgan. “What brings you to Redcliffe?”

She didn’t bother to keep her confusion hidden. “We came because you invited us,” Morgan said.  “You approached us in Val Royeaux after the Templars left.”

The confusion was mirrored on the mage’s face. “You must be mistaken.  I have not been to Val Royeaux since before the conclave.”

Eyes narrowing, Morgan scrutinized the elf’s face. There was no trace of a lie or a ploy on the gently lined face.  Just gentle confusion.  “I’m certain it was you,” Morgan insisted, tension pressing at her like a knife.

The lines on Fiona’s brow deepened, thin brows coming together. “But I don’t…”  The mage trailed off, mouth pulling into a frown.  “Now that you say that, I feel… _strange._ ”  Then she shook her head.  “Whatever brought you to Redcliffe, the situation has now changed.  The Free Mages have already… pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”  The look in her eyes deadened, becoming almost haunted.

“Fiona, dear, your dementia is showing,” murmured Vivienne, tone soft but scathing. Bull was practically bristling where he stood.

Cassandra was incredulous. “An alliance with Tevinter?!  Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?” 

Morgan dragged a hand through her hair. “Andraste’s tits…” she swore.  This was _bad_.  This was very, very, _very bad_.

Fiona continued, face stony. “As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have authority to negotiate with you.”  Morgan wanted to scream.  ‘Indentured’ was a good as ‘enslaved’ where Tevinter was concerned.  She balled her hands into fists, digging her fingers into her palms to keep from swearing again.

“We were coming to ally with you,” she finally said. “We wanted to help…”

Fiona nearly flinched. “We were at the mercy of the Templars, who believed us responsible for Divine Justinia’s death.  This… bargain with Tevinter was not what we wanted, but it was our only option.”  The pain on her care-worn face was obvious; the regret was real.  But she stood her ground.  “We are losing this war… I needed to protect my people.” 

The noise of the tavern dropped sharply, and Morgan saw gazes turning. She followed them, and saw a man in the strangest set of clothes that she had ever seen.  There were far too many leather straps, the garment an odd combination of mage robes and armor.  The man wearing them was older, with pale skin for a Tevinter.  He wore an equally ridiculous pointed hood, with pieces on the sides that suggest long, pointed ears.  A younger man in similar garb—he was wearing yellow—and with a pallid complexion and dark circles under his eyes came after, his hood hanging down behind him.  He looked only slightly less ridiculous.

The moment the older man began speaking, Morgan disliked him. He sounded like so many of the slimy misers she’d met with, acting kind and polite but only out for their own interests.  “Welcome, my friends!” he said, voice so warm that it made Morgan’s skin crawl.  “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

Fiona’s eyes hardened, and Morgan recognized the look of someone putting on a blank expression to hide anger and distress. “Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”

Alexius strode forward, nodded respect fully to Morgan, and not so much as glancing at the others. Which was impressive, considering the glares coming from Vivienne, Cassandra, and Bull. “The southern mages are under my command.”  Curiosity sparked in his eyes, head tilting slightly.  “And you are the survivor, yes?  The one from the Fade?  Interesting that one of your people should be capable of such a thing.”

Morgan drew herself up, shoulders square and jaw pushed out. “I haven’t seen any sign of the arl, or his men,” she said pointedly.

The Magister gave a vague wave of his gauntleted hand. “The Arl of Readcliffe left the village.”

“Arl Tegan did not abandon his lands during the blight, even when they were under siege,” Cassandra said darkly.

“The Arl would never abandon his seat or his people,” Blackwall agreed, an edge creeping into his voice.

Alexius offered what might have passed as a reassuring smile to someone who wasn’t trained to spot liars. “There were… _tensions_ growing,” he said.  “I did not want an incident.”

“So you forced him out,” Bull said, voice low and guttural. With how calm and measured it was, Morgan knew he was furious.

For the first time, the Tevinter eyed the qunari who towered over him. The smile he shot in Bull’s direction dripped with derision.  “Of course not.  It was agreed that it was for the best.”

Bull snorted, arms crossed over his huge chest. Morgan was inclined to agree.  “I want to know more about this alliance between the mages and the Imperium,” she said, and his attention turned back to her.

“Certainly,” he said, hands held wide and welcoming. Morgan wanted to punch him.  “What do you wish to know?”

“The Grand Enchanter said that she was ‘indentured to a Magister’.” She didn’t bother keeping the venom from her voice as she repeated the words.

“Our southern brethren have no legal status in the Imperium,” Alexius said, so matter-of-factly that Morgan had to resist the urge to spit at his feet. “As they were not born citizens of Tevinter, they must work for a period of four years before gaining full rights.  As their protector, I shall oversee their work for the Imperium.”

Morgan crossed her hands over her chest, mostly to hide the fact that her tightly balled fists were shaking. “I’m not clear, exactly, on when you negotiated this arrangement with Fiona.”

“When the Conclave was destroyed, these pour souls faced the brutality of the Templars, who rushed to attack them.”

 _‘Probably the first true thing he’s said,’_ Morgan thought to herself.

He turned, and smiled at Fiona. “It could only be through divine providence that I arrived when I did."

“It was certainly… very timely,” Fiona admitted.

“And what does the Imperium stand to gain by taking the mages under its wing?” Morgan prodded.

“For the moment, the southern mages are currently a considerable expense,” he said, as if he were admitting something embarrassing. “After they are properly trained, they will join our Legion.”

Horror and anger broke through Fiona’s mask. “You said not all of my people would be military!  There are children, those not suited—!”

“And one day, I’m sure they’ll all be productive citizens of the Imperium,” Alexius said coldly. “Once their debts are _paid_.”  Fiona shrank back, pale green eyes shining and jaw clenched.

“You’ve come a long way for such a ‘considerable expense’,” Morgan pointed out.

Alexius smirked, and she felt the need for a hot bath. “Indeed I am, but I have heard that you are no Ferelden, either.  Working for the Carta in the Free Marches, I hear.”  The dig at her past did _not_ go unnoticed.  “It seems we are both strangers here.  Come.”  He turned, gesturing for Morgan to follow.  Bull remained glued to her side, taking position behind her as she sat down across the table from Alexius.  The Magister looked to the young man in yellow.  “Felix, fetch us a scribe, please.  Ah!  Forgive my manners.  My son, Felix, friends.”

The young man bowed elegantly, then went to do what he was told. Alexius looked back to the woman across from him, pointedly ignoring the bulk of qunari muscle behind her.  “I am not surprised you’re here.  Containing the Breach is a feat few could even attempt.  There is no telling _how_ many mages would be needed for such an endeavor.  Ambitious, indeed.”

“Well, when you’re fighting a massive fucking hole in the sky, you can hardly afford to think small,” Morgan said sharply, and Alexius chuckled. Yup. _Definitely_ going to need a bath later.  At least they were moving onto familiar ground; Morgan was good at negotiating with slippery, conniving assholes.

Alexius began to speak, leaning forward slightly. “There will have to be—”

Felix’s return made him look up, and Morgan instantly noticed how unsteady he was on his feet, eyes blinking rapidly. Without thinking, she stood with Alexius, taking a step towards his son.  Then he was toppling forward, and Morgan felt like a moron.  Why was he falling on the shortest person there?!  But she caught him anyway, bracing her feet and catching him around the middle.  Bull saw her stiffen slightly, and made to step forward.  Morgan shook her head, easing Felix back onto his feet.  Alexius was already rushing to his son’s side, true concern painted across his face.

The younger man looked exceptionally embarrassed. “Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, taking a few unsteady steps back.

Alexius was already at his son’s side, a hand at the small of his back. “Are you alright?”  Whatever sort of person he was, he did seem to genuinely care for his son.

“I’m fine, father,” Felix said, making at attempt at a smile, though he still had an arm wrapped around his middle, and was leaning on his father.

 _‘A very good actor indeed,’_ Morgan thought.

The Magister was having none of it. “Come,” he said, “I’ll get your powders.”  He gave a slight bow in Morgan’s direction.  “Forgive me, friends.  We shall have to continue this another time.  Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle.”  As they made their way to the door, he turned once last time.  “I will send word to the Inquisition.  We will conclude this business at a later date.”

“I don’t mean to trouble everyone,” Felix said as he bowed out the door.

As the attention of the patrons began to ebb, Morgan put her back to them, using Bull and Cassandra as a shield as she produced the folded piece of parchment that Felix had pressed into her hand. “‘Come to the Chantry’,” she read.  “ ‘You are in danger’.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the plotty bits! I wanted to add the meeting with Dorian, but this chapter would have been way too long. Anyways, please enjoy!


	9. In Hushed Whispers, Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More plot, Morgan has increasingly bad dreams, and later gives everyone a heart attack. Also, more strays are adopted.

 

In Hushed Whispers, Part 2

 

They made for the Chantry quickly, but not before Morgan adopted yet another ‘stray’, a Tranquil alchemist named Clemence, whom she ordered back to the nearest Inquisition camp with any other Tranquil looking for work or shelter. Outside, she learned that the elvhen man that had greeted them was named Lysas, and that he had dreams of someday raising a family on a farm somewhere.  No one stopped them from going to the Chantry, though, and it was uneventful right until they reached the steps.  The Mark flared just like it did whenever she was near a Rift, and she groaned. “In the Chantry?  Really?” she muttered, stringing her bow and putting an arrow to it.  Bull shoved the door open, and she lunged in.  A man was beating the piss out of a demon with the head of a staff.  The thrumming Mark announced that more demons were on the way. “Nugshit,” Morgan hissed. 

Before she fired her first arrow, all Morgan had time to notice was that the man was human, and that he was a mage, and that he was very, _very_ pretty.  Then demons were pouring from the Rift that hung near the chantry ceiling, and she didn’t have time to look at him.  The Rift was the same as the one outside the village gates, with the same circles of green light on the ground.  The Inquisition party avoided them as best they could, and the pretty mage already seemed to know what trouble they were.  All in all, it was not a difficult fight, with a slightly larger party than usual.

When it was over, the brown-skinned mage didn’t turn back to them right away. He took a moment, eyes casting around the inchor-splattered floor of the chantry.  When he finally _did_ turn around, he was watching Morgan with something akin to child-like delight.  “Fascinating!”  His face was open and honest; she could tell he meant it.  “How does that work exactly?”  She opened her mouth to say that she hadn’t the foggiest idea, but he just laughed, a clear, pleasant sound.  “You don’t even know, do you?  You just wiggle your fingers, and Boom!  Rift closes!”  He sounded like a scholar making some new discovery, but was somehow quite unlike the clinical way Solas had been.

“Who’re you?” Morgan asked, trying to take some clue from his robes. They were pale, and similar to Alexius and Felix in that they had entirely too many straps and buckles.

“Ah, getting ahead of myself, again.” He made a small, but elegant bow.  “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.  How do you do?”

Bull and Hinter were flanking Morgan, and it was the qunari that growled. “Watch yourself,” he muttered, eyes narrowed.  “They pretty ones are always the worst.”

“What large, suspicious friends you have here,” Dorain said, just nodding politely at the large, grumpy qunari. Hinter, on the other hand, wagged his tail furiously, tongue lolling and posture relaxed.  That made Morgan feel a bit better about ‘Dorian’.  The Tevinter mage started speaking to her again.  “Alexius _used_ to be my mentor, so I wished to offer my assistance.  I’m sure it will be quite valuable.”  Morgan heard the way he stressed the past tense about the mentorship, and let _that_ part lie.

“We were expecting to meet Felix here,” Morgan said, fishing the note out of her coat pocket.

Dorian frowned for a brief moment. “I’m sure he’s on his way.  He was to give you the note, and then meet us here after ditching his father.”  He said it so casually, as if they were teenagers sneaking out to drink a stolen bottle of wine.

“Alexius couldn’t get Felix out of there fast enough when he pretended to be faint,” Morgan remembered. “Is he ill?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, a bit sadly. “He’s had some lingering sickness for months.  Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely.”

“Are you a Magister as well?”

Annoyance crossed Dorian’s face, and a tugging at the corners of his mouth pulled at his thin mustache. “Alright, let’s say this once.  I’m a mage from Tevinter, but _not_ a member of the Magisterium.  I know southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that just makes you sound like barbarians.”

“Fair enough. Now, you’re betraying your former mentor because…?”  Morgan trailed off expectantly.

“Alexius hasn’t been my mentor for quite some time.” He shook his head.  “Look, you know there’s danger.  That should be obvious even without the note.  Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mages out from under you.  As if by magic, yes?”  Bull made a grumbling noise.  “To get to Recliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Morgan groaned, head falling back as she stared up at the ceiling. “Sweet, nug-fucked, Maker-blessed demon shit,” she muttered, dragging a hand over her face.  “Of fucking _course_ he did.  I hope that’s less horrible than it sounds.”

“More,” Dorian said. Morgan groaned again.

Vivienne’s lip curled. “Do Tevinters know no shame?”       

“Not usually,” Dorian said with a shrug, unfazed by her disdain. “The Rifts you closed here; you saw how they warped time around them?  Sped things up and slowed others down?”  Morgan shuddered at the memory, but nodded.  “Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further from Redcliffe.”  True sadness colored his warm toned face then, pulling down the corners of his mouth and deepening the subtle lines on his forehead.  “The magic Alexius is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

Morgan dragged another hand through her hair, chewing on her lip for a moment. “Of fucking course it is,” she muttered, before looking back and meeting Dorian’s gaze squarely.  “But you’re asking me to take an awful lot on faith.”

“I _know_ what I’m talking about,” he insisted, expression leaning into frustration.  “I… I helped develop this magic.  But when I was his apprentice, it was pure theory; nothing he did could ever make it work.”  His hand lifted and pulled at his immaculate goatee.  “What I _don’t_ understand is _why_ he’s doing it.  Distorting time to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

There was a shifting in the shadows and Hinter’s head snapped around, ears going back and hackles going up. Felix stepped out of the shadows, just like the informants did in Varric’s novels.  “He didn’t do it for them.”  He looked paler than he had before, but it could have just been the better lighting streaming through the high Chantry windows.

Dorian smiled warmly at him, expression brightening. Hinter’s hackles went down.  “Took you long enough.  Is he getting suspicious?”  He still sounded so light hearted, as if they were merely breaking curfew, not battling time and space being torn apart while, at the same time, the world was fucking ending because of a giant hole in the sky.

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.”  There was genuine fondness in his voice, and for a moment, Morgan felt a twinge of guilt at her hatred of the Magister.  She shook it off.  Being a caring father didn’t excuse enslaving mages and fucking with time and space.  Then he was speaking again, this time looking at Morgan.  “My father’s joined a cult.  Tevinter supremacists; they call themselves the ‘Venatori’.”

What followed after that was an increasingly uncomfortable conversation about how Gereon Alexius and his cult were pulling out all the stops just to get to Morgan. There was some speculation about as to why, and thankfully, her being ‘holy’ or ‘chosen’ were never brought up, though the conclave was.  Vivienne and Dorian tossed a few magical theories back and forth, and Felix pleaded for them to stop his father, to _save_ him.  It didn’t change how Morgan felt about Alexius, but she found herself unable to dislike Felix.  Dorian was even harder to dislike, even if she didn’t trust him.  She was still paranoid fighting beside Cassandra and Bull, always ready for them to turn on her.  She trusted Dorian about as much as he was a dwarf.

The Tevinters left separately from back doors, leaving the Inquisition party standing in the silent chantry.

Morgan, for her part, wanted to throw up. It was because of her.  The mages had been forced to choose between death and slavery because Alexius wanted to get to _her._ She braced a hand on one of the pillars, mind reeling and stomach churning.  Hinter nuzzled her leg, and she scratched him idly behind the ears.  “We need to speak to Leliana and Cullen,” she finally said, turning back, gray-faced, to the others.

“And here I thought life with you would be boring,” Blackwall said, laugh clipped and dry.

“You can’t be thinking of trusting those two,” Cassandra cut in, leveling her stern gaze at the Herald.

“Fuck no,” Morgan muttered. “Don’t trust them for shit.  But what exactly are we supposed to do?  Just say they’re lying and leave the mages at mercy of a Magister?”

“They made their beds,” the Seeker said, and Bull thought Morgan was going to hit her.

“Oh yes, they must have jumped at the chance not to be slaughtered by crazed Templars,” she spat.

“I only meant—” Cassandra’s cheeks were pink.

“I get that they fucked up, Cassandra,” Morgan cut in, voice softer. “They really screwed up in a magnificent way.  But we can’t— _won’t_ leave them like this.”  She unstrung her bow and started towards the door.  “C’mon.  We need to get back to Haven as soon as possible.”

 

000

 

Before leaving Redcliffe, Morgan bought a proper set of daggers. They were simple things, unadorned but wickedly sharp.  She also bought a proper harness to carry them on her back, but packed both rig and daggers away.  The silence persisted as they went back up the road, falling into line with Morgan at the head.  Cassandra was staying a bit back, whether from anger or because she had been chastised.  Vivienne was probably fuming silently, and Blackwall just seemed sad for the mages.

Morgan didn’t want to think about what Bull had to be thinking. If he’d come out with a big ‘I told you so’, she wouldn’t have blamed him.  Not only was it magic and mages, but now it was unstable _time_ magic cooked up by a cult and a _Magister_.  Probably two of the qunari’s least favorite things.  And Morgan had led him right into it.  Even if she couldn’t fully trust him, she didn’t want to cause him undo stress.  Seheron had probably shown him the worst of Magisters, the type that parents used to scare unruly children into behaving.

He was walking at her back, closer than before, eyes scanning the road as they walked. However he was feeling, he was still an excellent body guard.  With a Tevinter cult setting its sights on Morgan, Bull was now _obviously_ vigilant, as opposed to the careful observation you wouldn’t notice unless you actually _looked_ for it.  They continued in silence, everyone locked up with their own thoughts.  It was only a bit after midday, so they had enough time to return to the camp near Lake Luthias.  They could send word ahead with a raven as well.

When they did reach the camp, Morgan tossed down her pack and her bow, digging out the practice daggers that Bull had given her. Without a word to anyone, she went back to the practice ring.  In an attempt to drown the incessant thoughts spinning around her head, she started working her way through the stances and strikes that Bull had taught her that morning. 

She was very glad for her nearly obsessive memory. She could never tell what would stick, and what she would forget completely.  For instance, she remembered nearly everything she’d ever learned about dogs and animals, but struggled with important dates in history, even if she’d found the subject matter interesting.  But something in Bull’s lessons had stuck, and she went through everything she knew for certain before moving on to some of the more complicated movements.

Those she took slowly, pausing to adjust her stance or the way she was holding the dagger. She could hear the hum of conversation and the preparation for dinner in the background, but ignored her own grumbling stomach.  She was aware of Hinter laying at the edge of the ring, but not much else.  Despite the sweat she worked up, the cold numbed her fingers, and eventually made it painful to grip the dagger.  She would have continued through even that if Bull hadn’t shown up, two steaming plates in his hands. 

“You wanna take one of these, Boss?” he asked, lifting one towards her. A small smile fought its way to her face, and she nodded.  When she took the offered plate, Hinter whined.  “I didn’t forget you, little man,” Bull said, and produced a bone that looked like it had been stolen before all the meat could be removed. 

Morgan’s smile stuck, and she took a seat next to Bull on a boulder, crossing her legs under her. The stew that night was heavy with sweet wild onions, mushrooms, and what appeared to be mutton.  Morgan didn’t care for mushrooms, but packed the food away all the same, nodding her thanks around a mouthful when she was handed a thick slice of brown bread.  As much as she missed her mother’s pastries, the simple Ferelden food was growing on her.  When she was done, Hinter had chewed the bone clean.

“I should catch him a rabbit,” she said. “Or has he been begging again?”

“He already got some left-carrots and mutton scraps,” Bull said. “I think the cook would have given him the whole damn sheep, the way she was cooing at him.”

Her foul mood was slowly lifting, and she reached over the scratch the dog’s ears. He came over and leaned his weight against her legs, tail wagging happily.  “You’re making more friends than I am,” she murmured fondly.

“Having him is going to make you a lot more approachable to the people. Fereldens generally think that if a dog likes a person, they can’t be too terrible,” Bull said.

“They _are_ excellent judges of character,” Morgan agreed.  “I like cats, but they’re harder to understand than dogs.”  Bull nodded agreement, and they fell into a comfortable silence.  The cold slowly began to creep through Morgan, the heat from her exercise wearing off.  With her elbows braced on her knees, she dropped her head into her hands, short nails digging into her scalp.  “Maker’s _balls_ , Bull.”

“Yeah, we really stepped in it,” Bull said with a heavy sigh. “And it’s not like we can just wipe our boots and walk away, either.”

“Don’t think we so much _stepped_ as fell,” Morgan muttered, lifting her head but keeping her chin in her hands.  “I am so sorry.”

“Hey, don’t start that again. I’m doing my job.”

Morgan groaned. “I _know_ ,” she said.  “I _do._ I also know it isn’t my place to decide what would make you uncomfortable or not.  You know yourself better than I do.  But I _know_ you don’t like mages and you _really_ don’t like _Tevinter_ mages.  You’re not one of the people that’s just scared and racist; you have a _reason_.”  She knew she was babbling and couldn’t stop.  “I trust you to know what you can and can’t deal with, but… Fuck.”  She gave him a weak, tired sort of smile.  “Friends are hard.  I don’t know how to do this.”

Bull didn’t have to make himself smile. He was happy to consider the dwarf a friend, and while unnecessary, the fact that she cared enough to worry about his mental wellbeing was actually sort of touching.  Misplaced, but touching.  On the other hand, the idea of the bright, kind woman struggling to articulate friendship was actually sort of sad.  “You’re friends with Sh’vara and Asala, though,” he pointed out kindly.  “You can’t be that bad.”

“I’ve known Sh’vara since I was little,” Morgan said plaintively. “That doesn’t count.  And I _am_ that bad.  Asala will tell you.  I _used_ to be good at it…”  She felt a twinge of sadness at the last part.  She really _had_ been and exceptionally friendly child and teenager.  But needing to become a spy and avoid assassins from your mid-teens onward really stunted a person’s friendship skills.  And constantly lying in nearly every social interaction didn’t help matters either.

Bull snorted. “You’re friendly and agreeable with everyone until they give you a reason not to.  Seems like a good way of doing things.”

She grumbled something under her breath, and slid down to sit on the ground next to Hinter. “Just let me know if I overstep, okay?”

“You’d have to fuck up pretty bad to get _me_ to complain,” he said.  That was met with pursed lips and slightly furrowed brows.

“Bull, I value your opinion; don’t hold back just cuz I’m your boss.” She was suddenly very, _very_ tired.  

“So I should tell you that your quartermaster doesn’t know shit about how heavy qunari are?”

Morgan burst out laughing despite herself, head thumping back lightly on the stone. “Imagining you trying to fit onto a puny human cot has filled me with sudden joy.”  Her laugh turned to a cackling giggle that she quieted when people started looking.  Trailing off into a sigh, she looked over and up at the hulk of qunari.  “You’d make a fair councilor, you know, Bull.  You know, like the kind people talk to when they’ve experienced something nasty.  You get how the mind works.”

“What, sitting in some stuffy room while some puffed up noble whines about how the peasants aren’t worshiping the ground they walk on?”

“Pff, no. _Those_ people can suck bad eggs.  Just saying, from what I know about spying, and the little bit I have on the Ben-hassrath, I think you were a good pick for the job.”  She pushed to her feet and dusted off her breeches.  “Going to _try_ and sleep.  See you later, Bull.”

 

000

 

Sleep came more easily than she expected, and Morgan drifted off with her feet tucked under the warmth of Hinter’s leg. Her dreams on the other hand, were decidedly _not_ easy.

_She was standing in Redcliffe again, the town silent but for the roaring of fires. Not every house burned, but with how fast the flames were growing, it would soon spread.  Smoke stung her nose and throat; she could smell burning straw and wood so clearly.  And… and bodies.  Beneath the smoke was the stink of dead flesh.  Something drew her eyes to her feet, and she saw a small, deathly pale hand reaching towards her.  She followed the hand to a wrist, an arm…_

_A child lay only a step away, body curled around a severed shoulder that had stopped bleeding long ago. The charred body of a Templar lay to the side, bloody sword between the child and the outstretched limb.  And beyond him, an old woman was slumped, a staff in her hand and an arrow in her back.  Morgan staggered back, tripping and falling over the body of a gutted dog.  It had been wearing a collar of once brightly colored yarn, braided together by loving hands._

_“This is what’s going to happen.”_

_Her head jerked up, and she was staring at her father. Sars Laton was without his usual apron and rolled up sleeves, instead wearing a ragged robe of tattered black.  Frost lined the ground where his feet stood, the cold creeping into Morgan’s bones and freezing her in place._

_“You’re going to fail, and_ this _,” he gestured around with a nearly skeletal hand, “is what’s going to happen. Just like you always have, you’ll fail, and all these innocent people are going to die.  Because of_ you _, Morgan.”_

_Hot tears blurred her eyes, and she blinked. Her father was gone, replaced by another pile of bodies.  She picked out Sh’vara’s tattooed face first, the dark skin gone ashen in death.  Then Asala’s broken horns, the charred remains of Josephine’s ruffles… Bull’s face, skin peeled to the bone on one side…  Sera, looking so tiny and fragile, had a sword in her belly and blood on her fingers from fighting till the end.  Her mother, beaten to death.  And Hinter, throat cut and body full of arrows…_

“Boss!” Someone was shaking her, and somewhere Hinter was whimpering.  Then the voice again, louder.  “Morgan!”

Her eyes snapped open and she lashed out without thinking. A large, warm hand caught her fist, enclosing it completely.  Bull’s concerned face came into focus, and Morgan stilled.  Still whining, Hinter crawled up her body, putting his weight over her legs as he nosed at her stomach, looking up in concern.  Morgan realized that she had sweated through her nightshirt and that she was having trouble catching her breath.  Bull was still holding her clenched fist, and she relaxed.  He let go, sitting back on the balls of his feet.

Morgan leaned forward, hunching over Hinter as her hands scratched under his collar, feeling the loose skin scabbed and scarred, but his pulse still beating strong under it. She sat up and looked at Bull, and offered a sheepish smile.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to wake you.”  She was trying to brush it off as just a bad dream, and they both knew it was nugshit.  She was pale and clammy, and her hand would have been shaking it not latched onto the worried dog in her lap. 

“Dreams are shitty,” Bull decided. She could barely see his face in the dark of the unlit tent, but his brow was still creased.  He wasn’t buying the ‘it was just a bad dream’ thing at _all_.  And of course he wouldn’t, he was too smart for that.

“Just my brain fucking with me like usual,” Morgan offered meekly. “No matter what I say or do, I always imagine the worst, and I guess it just got to me.”  That was closer to the truth; close enough that she wasn’t really lying, just being vague.  She pushed at Hinter and he sat up so she could lay back down.  He watched her for a few moments before huffing and returning to the empty space at the foot.  He only just fit, but curled into a tight ball left him enough room to sleep somewhat comfortably. 

“I’ll be fine,” Morgan assured Bull, rolling onto her side. “Thank you.”  She closed her eyes, but could feel him watching her a few moments longer before he returned to his side of the tent.  Morgan tried not to smile, thinking that he’d bothered to get out of his own bed to wake her.  After she heard his side of the tent go quiet, she opened her eyes and peered down at her glowing left hand.  The Mark felt _cold_ , her fingers like they’d been held in a bucket of ice water.  Fear rose a lump in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut.  “I’ll be fine,” she repeated to herself, barely whispering.

 

000

 

They were offered horses, but Morgan had such little experience that it was likely to take _longer_ on horseback.  They lightened their packs as much as possible, and struck out on the shortest path back to Haven.  Hard travel did not chase away Morgan’s uneasiness and guilt, and every moment they were resting she was practicing with her daggers, either by herself or with Bull.  Cassandra offered pointers, glad to offer advice now that Morgan was handling blades rather than arrows. 

Morgan trained Hinter to the new moves, having him turn with her as she spun and stepped. Bull worked on some stealth commands where Hinter walked between the Qunari’s legs, matching his steps.  When Bull walked, Hinter walked.  When Bull stopped, Hinter stopped.  When Bull bent his knees, Hinter lay on the ground.  The qunari was the only one tall enough to perform the actions without discomfort.  Halfway to Haven, Morgan started training with live blades.  She practiced with Cassandra, starting slow and steady.  Every night Morgan slept fitfully, her father’s face flitting in and out of her dreams, accusing her of endless failures. 

The sun was setting, and it had just started to snow when the lights of Haven’s gates finally came into view. Morgan, face drawn and dark circles under her eyes, ordered Hinter up to the gates.  He’d made a name for himself as the ‘Herald’s Mabari’ in Haven, even if he wasn’t technically mabari.  She heard his signature bark and some voices shouting.  The gates creaked open as the party neared, and Morgan saw Leliana already waiting for them, Varric at her elbow, brows furrowed and stubble a bit longer than usual.  It was painful to see such a somber look on his usually amiable face.

Blackwall, Vivienne, and Bull peeled away at the gates, Cassandra keeping pace. The group was passing Morgan’s quarters when Asala seemed to detach from the darkness and fall into line without a word.  Morgan could only smile weakly when the woman put a big hand on her shoulder.  “Sh’vara’s helping Mother Gisselle with a birth,” the blind mage said.  Her sightless eyes twitched reflexively down, following her mind.  Quiet alarm creased her brow.  “Morgan, you—”

“I know. Later,” Morgan hushed. “Let Solas—you know, the bald elf?—let him know I’d like to talk to him later.”

“The egg? Sure.”  Asala stepped away and let them continue to the Chantry, a smile tugging at Morgan’s lips despite her fatigue.  It was going to be a long night, so starting it off with a joke would be helpful.

 

000

 

It _was_ a long night.  Josephine had food and drink brought, but it went largely ignored.  Alexius had apparently sent such a complimentary invitation to her by name, that Leliana was quite certain of his designs on Morgan’s life.  While Cullen trusted the spymaster’s instincts, he was firmly against trying to infiltrate Redcliffe castle.  He argued that it had withstood the Blight and many sieges.  Morgan had never been a fan of marching in the front door, so when Leliana mentioned an escape passage, she was intrigued.

Unfortunately, after Dorian arrived, it turned that _Morgan’s_ best course of action was to just walk in the front door.  She swore long and loud, and colorfully enough that Leliana cracked a grin.  “Morgan, I had no idea you spoke Orlesian.”

“Just enough to get myself in trouble,” Morgan said. “Or out of it.  I can ask if I can approach someone’s dog in just about every language but the Qunari one.”  Cullen smiled at that one, and outside the war room, Hinter barked quietly.

It was a few hours more before the plan was finally settled, and scribes sent to tell the party members that had been selected for the mission. Morgan was all but ordered off to her quarters by Josephine, a basket of nutty little cakes pressed into her hands.  Morgan split one with Hinter on her walk back to the house she slept in.  She was still in her armor, and each step felt like she had lead in her boots. 

The fire was already lit and blazing, and there was a cold supper—including cuts of meat and vegetables in a bowl on the floor for Hinter—on her desk. There was also a beautifully made box set in a place of prominence on the floor.  Munching on one of the cakes, she kicked it open while she undressed.  Laid across the top was a set of proper metal gauntlets, sprigs of lily of the valley growing around the flaming sword-and-eye of the Inquisition.  Armor.  Someone had found her plans and made her new armor while she was away.  And the basket at the foot of the bed had freshly laundered smalls and stockings.  She thought she might cry.

Despite her tiredness, she dug out the armor, laying the pieces out on the desk. When the whole outfit was set out, she found the trunk still had something inside.  For a brief moment, she wanted to kiss Harritt, then wrinkled her nose and shook away the notion.  Hinter’s new armor matched hers perfectly, down the lily of the valley on the metal plates.  It was still light and flexible, with vicious spikes to protect his throat but still allow proper movement.  Hinter sniffed them happily, and ‘buffed’ softly, tail wagging happily as if he knew they were for him.  Morgan laid out his armor beside her own, and split her time between repacking her gear with fresh clothes, and eating. 

Servants arrived with water and tub for a bath, their bowing and ‘your worship’ing making her exceptionally uncomfortable. But she saw the younger of the two sneak Hinter a crust of bread, and she thanked them with a smile.  She didn’t linger in the water, even though the heat was heavenly.  She scrubbed with soap then pulled on a nightshirt and went to bed.  Instead of laying at her feet, Hinter nudged at the blankets until she let him crawl under, laying the curve of his body against hers, his nose on her pillow beside her.

 

000

 

That morning, there wasn’t proper time to explain things to Solas. He, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull were who she had selected to accompany her to Redcliffe while she played the bait in a ridiculous trap.  Solas gave Morgan what she was sure was supposed to be a meaningful look, but she could only shrug.  She had enough to worry about without the Mark starting something new.  She just wanted him around in case anything went wrong.

The return to Redcliffe was the same as the journey back; tense and with little time spent doing anything other than traveling or sleeping, the latter done only when absolutely necessary. They ate dry rations that required no cooking, Morgan feeding Hinter from a special bag given to her by Cullen.  She might have disagreed with the man, but he loved dogs as much as she did, and it was hard to dislike him too much.

Morgan and Bull shared a tent again, setting it up that way without thinking. It worked out—even with the addition of several dozen pounds of war dog—that Bull had more room to sleep in the tent when he shared with Morgan.  Her dreams were mercifully bland, though more than once she awoke with the Mark humming with magic.  It felt as if it took forever to reach their destination, but by the time they did, Morgan didn’t know where the days had gone.

 

000

 

In an effort to stop Alexius from getting nervous, Solas was told to wait outside, easily blending in with all the apostates. The whole way up to the castle, all Morgan could think about was the Hero of Ferelden, Amelia Brosca, and how she had probably walked the same steps with _her_ armored warhound at her side.  And hadn’t she also had a qunari companion?  None of the depictions of the famous ‘Sten’ looked anything like the qunari Morgan had met, but she’d heard that some qunari were born without horns.

She hadn’t had time to admire her armor; just time to put it on, having only minimal difficulty with the high leather boots and the wide sash around the waist. At least she’d got to keep her chainmail.  The familiar weight was reassuring.  As the doors creaked open, she put on her best diplomatic smile, while Cassandra and Bull scowled at her flanks.  The chill lingered with them as the doors closed at their backs, and a man in white Tevinter robes and a full-face metal mask approached them.  He was wearing scale mail under the robes and wide pant-legs, and there was the suggestion of a hidden blade in several places.  They were subtle, but whoever they were, they were dressed for a fight.

“Announce us,” Cassandra barked. Morgan pinned the man with a warm pleasant smile, her sparkling hazel eyes promising nothing but perfect manners and cooperation.

A blond man in the garb of a Ferelden scribe approached, looking at the two warriors and frowning. “The invitation was for Mistress Cadash _only_.  The others must wait here.”

 _‘Better chance of Solas falling in love with a Templar,’_ Morgan thought, but kept that part to herself.  She saw the man’s eyes rest uneasily on Hinter, who was paying him no mind at all, and baring his teeth silently at the masked Tevinter.  “Where I go, they go,” she said, using a tone inspired both by her mother and Cassandra, which left absolutely no room for argument.  Her smile vanished, eyes narrowing slightly.  Hinter finally looked up, lip still curled as he sniffed at the scribe.  He uttered the softest of growls.

The man swallowed, but bowed slightly, gesturing for them to follow. Bull didn’t have to look politely ahead, so he glared openly at the masked Tevinter, lip curling when others closed in behind the Inquisition party, following them up the steps.  The Seeker was a veritable storm cloud beside him, and Bull was certain that if she’d been born a mage, she’d either be crackling with lightning or setting things on fire with just a glance.  He couldn’t say he blamed her.  He’d fought countless soldiers that had worn similar armor, and he was already running through his metal list of weak points.

_‘Inside of the elbow, wrist, back of the knees, knife hidden in both sleeves, watch for poison…’_

“My lord Magister,” the scribe said, and Morgan could tell he was uncomfortable with the words, “the agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”

Alexius stood from the throne, and Morgan felt outraged on behalf of the Ferelden people. “My friend!” he said, all warm smiles and open arms.  “I see you have taken to Ferelden culture like a duck to water.” He nodded at Hinter, and the dog bared his teeth until Morgan put a hand on the back of his head.  “It is so good to see you again.  And your associates, of course.”  His tone was so relaxed and friendly he could have fooled just about anyone.  “I’m sure that we can work out an arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”  Morgan was proud of Cassandra for not making her trademark sound of disgust at the obvious lie.

Then Fiona, who had been standing to the side in the shadows, stepped into the light, shoulders squared. “Are we mages to have no say in deciding our fate?”

The Magister responded with an expression of bland annoyance. “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to me if you did not trust me with their lives.”

Morgan was unable to resist, a wicked grin pulling at one side of her mouth. “Of _course_ she trusts you, Alexius.  I’m sure lots of people put their lives in your hands.  You just have one of those faces.”

He smiled back brightly, unfazed. “Yes, the Magisterium tells me that so often.  Shall we begin our talks?”  Turning, he returned to the throne to sit.  “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them.  So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

Continuing with her bright and unassuming smile, Morgan spoke. “Actually, I was hoping you could tell me about these ‘Venatori’ I’m hearing _so_ much about.”

The magister hid his surprise well, leaning forward as his smile melted away. “Now… where could you have heard that name?”  His eyes were slightly narrowed, his pretense at warm welcome slipping away. 

Felix, who stood at his father’s right hand, turned to speak, face open and full of worried honesty. “I told her.”

Alexius’s head snapped around. “Felix… what have you done?”

The brightness in Morgan’s smile became genuine. “We made sure to disarm your trap before you we came in.  I hope you don’t mind,” she said happily.  She always loved getting the drop on someone, especially someone who thought they had already reached check-mate.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bull smiling.

“I’ve yet to see your cleverness, I’m afraid,” Alexius said dryly, pushing to his feet. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen Mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and think _you’re_ in control?”  Every pointy-hooded inch of him dripped with disdain and spite.  “You are _nothing_ but a _mistake_!” he spat.

 _‘Good, keep him talking, Boss. Get him good and pissed.  Magisters always hate having their pride insulted.’_   He heard the quiet slice of a blade over a throat behind him, but no one reacted.  Bull stayed close as Morgan stepped forward to meet Alexius, her shoulders square and stubborn jaw pushed out.

“If I’m a mistake,” Morgan snapped, “what, _exactly,_ was the Breach supposed to accomplish?”  She was curious despite herself.

“It was to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One, for the world!” Alexius said, voice rising.

Felix tried to grab his father’s arm. “Father, _please_!  Listen to yourself!  Do you know what you sound like?”  As much as Morgan was coming to hate Alexius, her heart broke for Felix, a son who loved his father and just wanted him to stop.

Dorian chose that moment to make a perfect entrance, with just the right amount of flourish and drama. “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”  Hinter wagged his tail briefly, but kept his snarling gaze on the elder mage.

“Dorain.” With the clipped tone, Morgan knew that Alexius had _not_ been expecting his former apprentice.  For a mage, Dorian was good at covering his tracks.  The Magister kept talking.  “I _gave_ you a chance to be part of this; you turned me down.”  His eyes grew wild, desperation hiding behind his fevered words.  He was already a fanatic.  “The Elder One has power you will not believe.  He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

Cassandra made a noise of angry disgust, and Morgan rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure your cult is superior to eeeveryone else,” Morgan said with a dismissive wave.  “Heard it a thousand times.”  She might not have seen it _quite_ that much, but the twisting look on Alexius’s face was more than worth the lie.

“Well you know, it’s a chance for the Imperium to really one-up that whole ‘starting the Blight’ thing,” Dorian said, smirking.

“He will make the world bow to mages once more.” It was getting difficult to _not_ roll her eyes.  “We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

Fiona had lost her fear, brimming with anger and carefully controlled magic. “You can’t involve my people in this!”

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen!” Dorian said desperately.  “How could you support this?”

Felix’s voice was softer, but no less worried. “Stop it, father.  Give up the Venatori.  Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

Alexius looked away, and there was a spark of something in his eyes, a wavering. Then it was gone, and he turned, a wild look in his eyes again.  “No!  It’s the only way; Felix, he can _save_ you!”

“Save me?”

“There _is_ a way,” the mage persisted.  “The Elder One _promised_.  If I undo the mistake at the temple…”

Felix shook his head. “I’m going to die.  You need to accept that.”  Everything was suddenly clear, and Morgan felt a real pang of sympathy for the Magister.  A dying son—his _only_ child—and along came this ‘Elder One’ promising a way to keep that child _alive_ …  She could almost understand why Alexius would want to tear apart time.

Alexius ignored his son’s pleas. “Seize them, Venatori!” he cried.  “The Elder One demands this woman’s life!”  His words fell on dead ears.  He looked up to see Inquisition agents standing where the Venatori had been, bodies at their feet.  Morgan felt an intense rush of pride as the last Venatori’s neck was snapped, and he crumpled to the ground.

“Your men are dead,” Cassandra declared. “It is over.”

The wild look in his eyes became increasingly frantic, almost mad, his voice shaking with rage as he spat out his words, hatred drilling into Morgan. “You… are a _mistake_!  You should never even have existed!”

The Mark throbbed as Alexius lifted a hand, something beginning to glow in his palm. Everything happened at once.  Morgan shoved Hinter back, lunging at Alexius.  Cassandra and Bull drew their weapons, and Dorian cried out, sending a blast of force from his staff that caught Alexius in the chest.  He and Morgan were closest to him when a swirling mass of blue and black energy exploded, snapping them up with a crack of noise, leaving nothing but a blackened streak on the steps.

Bull had been aware of his anger for a long time. For as long as he could remember, he’d been taught that there was a beast living inside him, one that fed on rage and chaos, and that only the teachings of the Qun could keep it in check.  After accidentally breaking a friend’s arm in a stupid scuffle, Bull adhered to those teachings religiously.  Maybe he’d been away too long, living among humans, elves, dwarves and Tal-Vashoth.  He stared at the stone where Moran and Dorian had been standing, the surface scorched and still smoking.

The beast inside him roared, desperate for blood. Magister blood.  Morgan had been his friend.  She had gone in as bait, trusting him to protect her, and now she was dead.  He had _failed_.  Everyone was staring, aghast and shocked, but Bull knew it was only a matter of time before Alexius called for more of his Venatori.  They had precious few seconds to react.  Bull decided he was going to kill him.  There was no way to close the Rifts now, the laughing, joking rogue with the glowing hand snuffed out like so many in Seheron.

Bull took a step forward. He wasn’t going to use his axe.  He was going to crush the Magister’s skull in his hands, and bash it on the stones until there was nothing left but pulp and shards of bone.  Hinter seemed to be of the same mind, stalking forward with fangs on full display, growling loudly.

Then, all at once, Morgan was standing there again, smoke swirling around her and Dorian. But it wasn’t like she’d never left.  She was splattered with blood and demon inchor, and had exchanged her bow for a mismatched pair of bloody daggers.  She was breathing hard, and tears carved tracks through the blood smeared over her cheeks.  One eye was starting to swell, and he was fairly certain that a great deal of the blood on her right arm was her own. 

But she was _alive_ , chest heaving with labored but regular breaths.

And she was livid. Morgan forced herself to let go of the daggers, knowing full well she’d turn them on Alexius— _again_ —if she kept a hold on them.  The pain on his face did nothing, and she advanced as he slumped to his knees.  “You failed, Alexius,” she spat.  “How forgiving is your Elder One?”

The man suddenly looked… broken. Gone was his anger and spite.  All of it just… gone.

He shrugged helplessly. “You won.  There is no point extending this… charade.”  Felix was still standing by the fire, and pain twisted his father’s face as Felix came over and knelt.  “Felix…”  His voice broke.

“It’s going to be alright, Father,” Felix said softly, his smile far more kind and gentle than his father deserved.

“You’ll _die_ ,” Alexius croaked. 

“Everyone dies,” Felix murmured.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, under all the boiling anger and pain, Morgan understood. Somewhere, she knew that she would have done the same—moving heaven and earth and making every deal she could—to save her own family.  But that excused nothing, and she was far too angry to forgive him.  She’d watched her friends die, and known that all the others—Maker, what had happened to Hinter? To _Sera_?—had died in fear.  All because Morgan had failed.  She watched in stony silence as two of Leliana’s agents took Alexius away, Felix following.  The Magister went without protest.

“Boss… Morgan?”

The sound of Bull’s voice made her flinch, and instantly, she was watching the demon toss his body aside, throat torn open. He hadn’t been dead, not yet, and had made one last desperate grab for the demon’s ankle.  The tears started again, and Morgan slowly turned.  Bull was half up the steps to where she stood, eyes searching her face, then her body, looking for injuries.  Cassandra was there, too, probably just as concerned.  But Morgan couldn’t look away from Bull.

“You’re… alright?” she managed to croak, her anger starting to ebb. Hinter was nosing her and whining, her hand absently stroking this head and ears, smearing blood and grime over the white half of his face.

“Yeah, we’re fine. Are you—?”  Morgan stepped forward and lunged in, wrapping her arms as far around his chest as she was able.  He was still for a moment, feeling her almost tremble against him.  He gave Cassandra a brief, confused look before he hugged Morgan back, squeezing gently in case she was badly hurt.  The relief that washed through him was immense.  He didn’t know what had happened, or how, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  Eventually, she tore herself away and heaped an equally tearful hug on Cassandra, who looked slightly panicked.

Bull’s eyes lifted to Dorian. The mage was watching Morgan with a pained expression, his own robes also stained with blood an inchor.  His hair wasn’t as perfect as it had been, and his mustache not quite so curly.  Finally, Morgan stepped away from Cassandra, smiling sheepishly, and promising to explain everything.  She glanced at Dorian, and the look that passed between them was one only shared by people that had witnessed something awful together.  Bull decided not to wonder what had happened in that brief instant they’d been gone until later.

“Well,” Dorian said as he descended the steps, “I’m glad that’s over with.” The doors to the castle burst open, and what seemed like half the Ferelden army marched in, the picture of military discipline and order.  Dorian pursed his lips.  “Or _not._ ”  The soldiers fell into line along the sides of the path to the throne, and a woman in simple but elegant clothes strode in.  Blond hair was pinned up in a crown of braids.  Morgan might have been a born-and-bred Marcher, but she knew the Queen of Ferelden when she saw her.

Queen Anora’s ruddy, elegantly sculpted face made no attempt to hide her anger as she rounded on Fiona, who instantly shrank back. “Grand Enchanter Fiona.”  Her words were short and clipped.

Fiona approached, head bowed and hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Queen Anora!”

The monarch wasted no time. “When I granted your mages sanctuary, I assumed it went without saying that they would not force my people from their homes.”

“Your Majesty, let me assure you, we never intended any of this—”

“Your intentions ceased to matter the moment my people were threatened,” Anora snapped. “I am rescinding my offer of sanctuary.  You and your followers will leave Ferelden at _once._ ”

Morgan’s heart was torn in two. She was sure that Fiona had done what she thought she had to do to protect the mages, but Alexius could have made things considerably worse if he hadn’t been stopped.  Fiona seemed close to tears.  “But… we have hundreds who need protection.  Where would we go?”

Shoving down her anger, and the burning ache growing in her body, Morgan stepped forward. “You’ll come with us,” she said plainly.  “The Inquisition can take the Free Mages.”  Both women looked at the dwarf, and Morgan wished—very briefly—that another Rift would open up and swallow her.

“And what would be the terms of this arrangement?” Fiona asked cautiously, not daring to hope for much.

“Hopefully better than what Alexius gave you,” Dorian said. He looked to Morgan.  “The Inquisition is better than that, yes?”

“I would suggest conscripting them,” Cassandra cut in. Morgan wanted to punch her.  Had Cassandra never been helpless?  Desperate to survive and left with only shit for options?

Solas had entered the hall at some point, and seemed to share her opinion.  “That is little better than slavery to Tevinter,” he said with surprising venom.  He looked pleadingly at Morgan.  “They have lost all other supporters; the Inquisition is their only chance for freedom.”

“They’ve shown what they’ll do with that freedom,” Cassandra shot back. “Ally with a Magister!”

Morgan glanced at Bull, ready for him to support Cassandra. He said nothing, and just nodded at her.  He already knew her decision.  Fiona sighed heavily.  “It seems we have little choice but to accept whatever you offer, Lady Cadash,” she said, resigned.

“The Inquisition would be honored to have you as allies against the Breach,” she declared, voice as clear as a bell. Fiona’s face morphed from resignation, to confusion, then surprised disbelief.

“We will discuss this. Later,” Cassandra muttered, but Morgan ignored her.

The rest was a blur. Morgan was vaguely aware of feeling faint, then she was being whisked off by Bull and Solas.  She lost consciousness at some point, and when she awoke she was wearing only her smalls.  Her arm was wrapped in bandages, and she could barely see out of her left eye.  She was awake long enough to see that Bull and Dorian were leaning against opposite walls, and for Solas to make her drink down another potion.  She wasn’t sure if it was for healing or sleep, but her vision quickly darkened and she slipped away again.

 

000

 

The mages had been given a day to pack their things and leave. They ran about, the queen’s soldiers watching them like hawks.  Bull stood guard at the open back of a wagon.  The sides were laden with full crates and chests, with Morgan asleep on a pile of furs between them.  Solas had assured everyone—Cassandra needed to be told _several_ times—that the Herald would recover without complications, and that she was simply suffering from moderate blood-loss and exhaustion.

Stripped of her armor and bundled up in blankets, she looked even smaller than usual. The swelling around her eye had gone down, but a particularly colorful bruise still lingered.  And from what Bull had seen, she’d also have one hell of a scar on her right arm.  But a big, ropey scar was a fair trade compared to not being able to use the limb properly.  Solas was sure she’d have full range of motion.  One of the dwarven merchants in the village had offered to sell her the dwarven longbow they had, but she had declined.  During her last waking moment, she had demanded that Bull give her one of his daggers, and had laid it beside her nest of furs before she lay down.

He wasn’t letting her out of his sight again. He had heard Cassandra and Solas interrogating the ‘Vint, Dorian.  Apparently, Alexius had sent Morgan and Dorian one year into the future, where everything had gone to shit.  Also, the future versions of Cassandra and Bull had been there, and had given their lives for a chance at undoing it all.  It certainly sounded like something he would do.  A couple people dying for a second chance at history?  It wasn’t even a question.  The way Dorian had looked at Bull while explaining things had been a bit unsettling.  It was… _familiar_. 

Bull felt a presence behind him, and turned swiftly. _‘Speak of the ‘Vint,’_ he thought.  Dorian had cleaned some of the blood off his robes, and his hair and mustache looked slightly more orderly.  He was looking past Bull, at the small body curled under the blankets in the wagon.  Bull took a step to the side, blocking the mage’s view.  Dorian clicked his tongue and gave the qunari and exasperated look.

“Oh, do forgive me for being _concerned_ , qunari,” he said, with a dramatic and mocking bow.

“Well, you’ll forgive _me_ for not wanting another Magister near the Boss,” Bull said coldly.

“I said before, I’m not—” He broke off at the half smirk on Bull’s face.  “You _know_ I’m not a Magister,” he muttered, crossing his arms.  After a few more moments of staring, he sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his hair.  He really was quite pretty.  “She cares very much for you, you know,” he said quietly.  Bull just grunted.  “She cried when you died for her.”

Bull didn’t let it show that the idea of Morgan’s tears bothered him. He just shrugged.  “Boss is pretty sentimental.”

Something flashed in the mage’s eyes. “Oh, yes, I forgot.  Qunari don’t give a shit about anyone outside the Qun.  She’s just a source of money to you, isn’t she?”

“She can close the Rifts, too,” Bull said casually, as if it weren’t a big deal at all. It was far too much fun to poke at the ‘Vint, and he didn’t care if Dorian thought he was an unfeeling asshole.  He still didn’t trust him anywhere near Morgan.

“You are—!”

“Will you two shut up?” Morgan snapped, suddenly sitting bolt-upright, her short hair sticking up in all directions.

“This blasted—!”

“Dorian, if you say ‘ox-man’ I’m going to punch you and shave half your mustache. And Bull,” he had turned to look at her, and was grinning wickedly.  “Please stop teasing Dorian.  He’s dealt with enough today.”

“Aw, c’mon, Boss,” Bull said with false pleading, “I wanted to see if I could make him set something on fire.”

“ _I’ll_ set you on fire, Bull,” Morgan muttered, gingerly touching the bruise around her eye and wincing. She could see Dorian looking rapidly between them, trying to reconcile the uncaring asshole he’d been speaking with a moment ago with the man who was now joking easily with Morgan.  She had to admit, it _was_ an amusing expression.  “He’s not as much of an ass as he pretends to be.”  Looking around, she frowned.  “Where’s Hinter?”

As if he’d been waiting for his que, the large dog trotted around the bend, carrying some small, fuzzy creature in his mouth. Fully expecting a rabbit, Morgan already had a knife out to skin the animal when Hinter put his paws on the back of the wagon, and dropped a scruffy gray kitten into her lap.  All three people stared as the small cat uncurled, blinking up with a single eye as green as the Breach.  Morgan looked from dog to kitten and back again.

“You don’t get to eat this,” she said, and Hinter huffed his offense. He nudged the kitten with his nose, dragging his tongue up its back and making its fur stand on end.  It mewed, the sound little more than a squeak.  The eye not open was squeezed tightly shut, running with fluid that had crusted in its fur.  She looked up in concern and realized that Bull _and_ Dorian were leaning forward, twin expressions of concern on their face.  Then Dorian blinked, looking between Bull and the new animal several times.

“You’re so _tiny_!” Bull whispered, extending a finger towards the kitten who sniffed it delicately.  Dorian snorted, and Bull glared.  “What’d’you want, _‘Vint_?” he growled.

“You’re a matched set,” Dorian chuckled. Bull blinked again, and Dorian tapped his own left eye.

Looking again, both Morgan and Bull took a moment to understand. The cat’s fur was a similar gray to Bull’s skin, and its bad eye was also the left one.  The color of its eye was also strikingly similar.  Morgan burst out laughing, and Bull began to grin.  Hinter barked happily, tail wagging furiously.  Bull scooped up the tiny ball of fur, making it look even smaller in his big hands.  The kitten bumped its head against his fingers, and began to purr.  “That’s not even _fair_ ,” Bull muttered.  “Now I _have_ to take you.  Krem would never forgive me.” 

“Can I, Bull?” Morgan asked, holding out her hands.  “I’m going to see what’s going on with that eye.  Dorian, since you’re not a healer, can you go find Solas?”

“Oh, _of course_ , My Lady!” he said with a sweeping bow.  “I live to serve.”

“Oh, shut up,” Morgan muttered. She wasn’t even looking up, holding the kitten gently as she attempted to open the eye.  That got her a fast and instantly bloody swipe across the finger, and Hinter began to whine.  “Yeah, please tell Solas to head over this way if you see him.”  Dorian left with a laugh, Morgan and Bull falling into a short silence while she went over the rest of the animal.  She was better with dogs, but knew enough about cats to make a cursory examination.  “He’s a good man, Bull,” she finally said.

“Whatever you say, Boss,” Bull said, reaching out to scratch the kitten.

“If he stays, I’m going to bring the two of you everywhere together.”

“Aw, c’mon…”

Morgan looked up, cracking a smile at the false pout. Then, all at once, his eye flashed red, the glow of red lyrium wrapping around him.  Color drained from her face, and her heart jumped into her throat.  She let go of the kitten for fear of crushing it as her body went rigid.  She sucked in a strangled breath, heart racing.  She was drowning, drowning in her fear and anger.  She could hear Hinter whining as if from very far away, and reached out blindly.

Bull’s hand caught hers, nearly enveloping it completely. “I’ve got you, Boss.”

His skin was warm, but not the fever heat it had been in the future. Morgan felt Hinter’s sharp feet braced on her legs, and put out her other shaking hand to grip his collar.  Looking up, the red was gone from Bull’s eye.  “Say something,” she croaked.  He blinked.  “Need to hear your voice.”  She had to make _sure_.

“Okay. ‘Something’.” 

He offered a hopeful smile, and it widened when she cracked a small, weak grin. His voice was as it should be.  “Ass,” she muttered weakly.  Slowly, Morgan pulled her hand from his, and he let her.  Hinter whined in distress, and the kitten mewed, upset at being ignored.  Bull scooped it out of her lap, letting her scoot back and gesture Hinter up.  He laid down in front of her and laid his head in her lap.  Morgan leaned down and buried her head in his side, hands balling into fists around his coat.

“Need me to get anyone?” Bull asked. She shook her head.  “Want me to stay?”  Morgan nodded.  “Good.  Was planning to anyway.  Don’t need you getting too friendly with the ‘Vint.”

Still hidden in Hinter’s side, Morgan snorted. “Your Lieutenant is a ‘Vint,” she pointed out.

“Well, as far as _I_ know, Krem won’t set shit on fire if he sneezes,” Bull said primly.

“He’s a smart kid. I’m sure he could if he tried.”  She was hiding a smile at that point, too.  It was impossible not to around Bull.  Tears pricked her eyes, and she pressed her face into Hinter’s coat again, the leather smooth and the wool only slightly itchy.  She wondered about his armor for a moment, but another wave of panic washed the thought away.  Her chest tightened, her skin got hot, and she felt like she was going to be sick.  But she forced herself to let go of Hinter, and to sit up. 

The skin under her freckles had gone ashen, making her bruise stand out even more. Her expression pulled for a moment before washing away, an emotionless mask taking its place.  There was too much in her head for her to deal with.  “Sorry,” she mumbled, gesturing at the cat that was trying to claw at the strap of Bull’s harness.

But he just shook his head. “Forget it.   Solas’ll be over when he can.”  He pulled his canteen from his belt and put it beside her leg.  “I expect you to finish that before we leave, Boss.” 

Morgan rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, pulling one of the furs around her shoulders and leaning back against the crate behind her. She looked down, and saw Hinter’s big brown eyes looking up at her, brows creased.  She smiled, and stroked his tattered ear, earning a groan of contentment.  “You’re such a good boy.”  She tried not to think of what might have happened to him in the future where she’d vanished.  “Next time, you can rip their throat out before the magic happens, okay?”  She bent and kissed the tip of his nose, and got a big, wet lick in return.  She coughed.  “Or kiss them to death, whatever.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there was the first big plot point, as well as a bunch of stuff laid out for later. And yes, I wanted to give Bull a tiny cat because you all know it would be adorable. Also, tiny dwarf woman with big dog paired with giant qunari man with tiny cat is something that makes me extremely happy. 
> 
> Also, I'm going to be delving more into magical theory from now on, taking from canon and taking a few liberties. The magic of the mark is obvious, and the fact that the effect it would have on a dwarf is barely even mentioned pissed me off. So, yes. Also, there's going to be much more detailed descriptions of self harm, depression, and alcoholism coming up, and I'll put warnings in the chapters with those things. Just a heads up. I'm also going to be working on accurately depicting PTSD. If I mess anything up, please let me know! Thank you for reading.


	10. Lost Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan is very, VERY angry.

 

A small city of tents had blossomed in Haven, and the stables had been extended with the arrival of Master Dennett and his horses. Morgan was worried that the children and the elderly wouldn’t do well in the cold, but then she saw mages painting runes into the canvas of the tents, and carving magic circles into the cold ground beneath them.  Soon the snow around the tent city was melted away, the ground half thawed.   A group of Templars was watching from a respectful distance, and were doing a decent job of not looking angry or hateful.

Morgan was standing near the gates to the main village when a young man approached her. His dark hair was braided in rows close to his scalp, and twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of his neck.  When his hands emerged from his cloak, he was holding Bull’s kitten.  Morgan had to stifle her squeal of delight, taking the fuzzy creature gently.  She examined what had been the bad eye, finding it still closed, but no longer runny and inflamed.  It mewed plaintively, sneezing at her Marked left hand but otherwise rubbing against her fingers.

“We had to remove the eye, but she’s so young that she’ll adapt easily,” the young man said, drawing his hands back into his cloak. “My family had a cat like her.  They’re called Ferelden Forest Cats.” His eyes were bright in a way that Morgan was familiar with; he took real delight in his knowledge of animals.  She hoped he could hold onto it.  “They get very large, some well over twenty pounds!”

“Shit, that _is_ big,” Morgan said, then instantly clapped a hand over her mouth, ears going red.  “Sorry!”

The young man laughed, and Morgan was certain he’d be breaking hearts left and right soon. “It’s alright Your Worship, I heard worse before breakfast in the Circle, not to mention the farmers!”

Morgan cracked a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Jaren, Your Worship.”

“Well, Jaren, before anything else, _please_ , just call me Morgan.”

His dark eyes widened. “I—I couldn’t do that, Your—”

“How about Lady Morgan?”

Jaren shuffled his feet, biting his bottom lip. “That still seems awfully familiar…”

“Well, my family name is Cadash. How does ‘Lady Cadash’ sound to you?  Is that formal enough?”  She tilted her head, trying to catch his eyes again.  The kitten mewed in her arms and Jaren looked up.  Soon he’d be towering over her.

“Alright, Lady Cadash,” he finally said.

“Excellent!” Morgan smiled at him and adjusted the kitten.  “If you need anything, and Cassandra—big, scary Seeker—is being grumpy, find the bald elf apostate, Solas.  He can help you, alright?”

“Thank you, Lady Cadash!”

She watched him go for a few moments, before she started across the yard, heading for where the Chargers were camped. When she didn’t immediately see Bull’s horns sticking up over the tents as per usual, she sought out Krem.  She found him with a small pile of fabric scraps in his lap, his gauntlets set aside as he plied a needle and thread through what looked like the start of a stuffed nug.  It was harder to see a blush on his gold-brown skin, but instantly started stuttering when he caught sight of Morgan.

“Y-Your Worship!” He shot to his feet, then instantly crouched to scoop up the fallen fabric.  “Th-this… This is just—!”

“That looks really good!” Morgan said. “I’m shite at sewing when it doesn’t involve buttons or simple tears.  I’m a lot better with yarn.”

Krem blinked, some of his fluster slipping away. Then the kitten mewed again, and his eyes lowered, then brightened.  “So this is the little chief!” he said, abandoning his sewing on top of a barrel and stepping close.  The smile on his face and the joy in his voice was enough to make Morgan’s cheeks warm slightly.  The kitten allowed Krem to pet her, Morgan totally forgotten. 

“She’s apparently going to get quite big,” Morgan said.

“Of _course_ she is,” Krem said, still not looking up.  He tried to scratch the kitten’s belly, and spat out a Tevene curse when the kitten grabbed his finger with her claws.  “Little bastard,” he muttered, sucking his finger while Morgan laughed.

“I know we have plenty of dog food, but I’m pretty sure cats have different dietary needs,” Morgan said. “I can ask Minaeve if you like?”

“Ah, don’t trouble yourself, Cadash,” Krem said. He turned the full force of his smile on her, and Morgan’s stomach dropped.  What right did he have to be so pretty?  “It was kind of you to bring her back with you.”

“Thank Hinter,” Morgan said hurriedly, hoping she wasn’t blushing too noticeably. “He found her and dropped her in my lap.”

He laughed. “Hah!  I’ll save him a bone from dinner then.  Excuse me, I’m going to see if Rocky has a way to cut through the ice _without_ using explosives.  I’m going ice fishing.”

“Good luck with that.” Morgan waved her farewell, catching the start of a loud and thunderous purr as Krem carried the ‘Little Chief’ off with him.  She let out a breath, turning her gaze to the sky.  They had reached Haven a few hours before sundown, and the sky was now a deep orange, bleeding into purple and red.  A shiver that had nothing to do with the mountain air rolled down her spine, and she turned, beating a quick path back to the gates.

Hinter met her at the top of the steps, paws muddy and tongue lolling. His big toothy smile was enough to bring one out on her own face, and she knelt to pet him.  She took her time, scratching under his collar and behind his ears.  She knew that she have to speak with Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine in a few moments, and was not looking forward to it at all.  There would be no time to enjoy the tea or whatever goodies Josephine set out.  And anyway, Morgan was more in the mood for a bottle of wine to herself, and some cheese.  Or blackberry brandy, so sweet it made her teeth hurt…

With a grunt, she pushed back to herself, bracing her hands on the small of her back and arching until her spine cracked. Hinter followed her without hesitation, prancing proudly beside his lady, the second most terrifying escort in the Inquisition.  Cassandra and Bull were plenty intimidating all armored up, but a war dog, walking the edge of tame and wild, evoked a different, primal sort of fear.  Old fears of instinct laid deep by intelligent thought and complex human emotion.  The fear of tooth and claw cut through all that, and it gave Morgan a dark sort of pride that _she_ was the one who wielded that power.

Refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, Morgan strode into the Chantry with her head held high, and walked into a conversation on the verge of a shouting match.

“This is not a matter for debate,” Cullen growled. “There _will_ be Abominations among the mages!  We need to be prepared for—”

“We rescind the offer of an alliance, we appear incompetent at bests, and tyrannical at worst,” Josephine pleaded, though there was a glint in her dark eyes; something sharp beneath the surface.

Morgan stepped into the light, and Cullen rounded on her, all trace of his usual military composure gone. “What were you _thinking_ ; turning the Mages loose without oversight?!  The Veil is torn open!” 

Leliana saw the short woman bristle, back straightening and all traces of her fatigue falling away. Her shoulders squared and her chin jutted out, hands balled into fists at hers ides.  “You would have them all chained, on the off chance that _one_ lets their guard down?!”  All her anger bubbled up, finally having a target.  “When there’s a bad apple in the barrel, you remove the bad one, not toss the whole fucking thing overboard!  The mages deserve to be treated with the same respect as anyone else!”

Cullen looked taken aback by her venomous answer, and his voice was a bit softer when he spoke again. “This isn’t about respect…”

“Yes it is. They are _people_ , Cullen,” Morgan said, lip curling and pulling at her new scar.  “They are not monsters to be bound or destroyed under simple suspicion.  I’d have thought Kirkwall proved that.”  Cullen flinched, and she felt a tiny pang of guilt.  She didn’t know him well enough to judge him, and it had been a low blow to bring up the cluster-fuck that had been Kirkwall.

He suddenly looked so tired, but wouldn’t let it go. “You were there, Seeker,” he said desperately.  “Why didn’t you intervene?”

Cassandra looked over at Morgan, and the dwarf braced herself for a severe dressing down. Instead, the warrior gave a sort of shrug.  “I may not completely agree with the decision, but I support it.”  Morgan blinked, mouth falling open as she stared with a slightly dumbfounded look.  “The sole purpose of Morgan’s mission was to gain the mages’ aid, and that was accomplished.”

“Aah! The voice of pragmatism speaks!”  Everyone turned to see Dorian come around one of the pillars.  “And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments.”  He smiled and winked at Morgan, and the curl in her lip turned to a half smile.

Cassandra’s expression was as blank as she could manage, though one of her eyebrows was twitching. “So long as we can safely close the Breach, I will not argue the methods.”

“We’ll need lyrium,” Morgan said, gears starting to turn.  “I don’t know much about it myself besides handling safety and smuggling, but I know mages use plenty of it.”  She looked to Leliana.  “I have a few Carta contacts that _might_ still speak with me.  If not, I know others.”

The spymaster smiled. “More smugglers?  Excellent. We will need every advantage.”

“We’ve been getting a decent supply from legitimate lines,” Cullen argued, and Morgan wanted to find Krem’s war hammer and hit the blonde bastard. Not because she was angry at _him_ , but because she was tired and he was dragging everything out.

“Enough to sustain a company of Templars and a small handful of mages,” she said. “We have an _army_ now.”

“Keep it under the table, I can keep the rumors to a minimum,” Josephine said, scribbling a note on her writing board. The rest was a conversation about that had happened in the future with Dorian, which he made some dry comments about.  Morgan welcomed his continued help gladly, but wanted to leave the conversation as soon as possible.

“May I walk with you, Morgan?” Leliana asked, as the others drifter off and the dwarf made a b-line for the door.

“Oh, of course!” Morgan said without thinking. She instantly regretted it, feeling the spymaster’s gaze on her back as she opened the door and started along the path.  Either Leliana felt her discomfort, or just wanted to talk, because she moved to walk at Morgan’s side.

“I assume you know the story of the Hero of Ferelden,” Leliana said.

Morgan tried to hide her spike of curiosity. Of _course_ she knew the story of one of the only dwarf heroes in recent memory.  She _also_ knew that Leliana had fought beside the casteless dwarf, and it had been rumored that they had been lovers.  “Yes, I know the story.  You knew her well, I’ve heard?”

To her surprise, Leliana giggled, and it was such a lovely pleasant sound, that for a moment, Morgan actually forgot how terrifying the woman really was. “Oh, yes, I know her very well indeed.  Are there those still trying to explain us away as the best of friends and comrades?”  She seemed truly amused by the idea.

“I’m afraid so. It’s bad enough that they have to celebrate a dwarf saving the world, but one who exclusively preferred the company of women?  That’s asking a bit much.”  They shared a smile, and something in Morgan lifted.  It was hard to put into words how wonderful it was to have a hero similar to herself in so many ways.  “Um, why do you ask, anyways?”

“Are you aware that after the Joining, all Wardens dream of Darkspawn?” Leliana asked. “Even the dwarven ones?”

It took a few moments for Morgan to catch on, and she stopped in her tracks, staring up at the other woman with wide eyes. It had never even entered her mind that another dwarf might have experienced dreams, let alone the Hero of bloody Ferelden.  “So Amelia Brosca…?”

“My love had terrible nightmares nearly every night. I do not know if she went to the Fade, as you seem to be doing, but I feel that I might be able to offer some sort of comfort.  When she asked Alistair, he was unable to explain dreams to Lia’s satisfaction, so she asked me.  She said I was better with words.” 

The fact that the former Warden Commander was being called ‘Lia’ by her spymaster lover chased away any hint of Morgan’s bad mood. Leliana continued. “If you have questions, I’m sure Solas could—”  She broke off with a giggle when Morgan made a face.  “ _I_ could give some non-magical explanations, if you prefer conversation to examination.  Though,” she added, “you _should_ speak to him eventually.  Madame de Fer is an accomplished mage, but Solas may have better experience with the Fade.”

Morgan didn’t know what to say. She had never seen this part of Leliana, the part under all the sharp edges and the lines worn into her face.  Hinter had followed them from the Chantry, and apparently tired of the silence that descended between them.  He sniffed at Leliana’s hand, and then jumped up, intending on plant his paws on her shoulders.  But she spun out of the way with practiced ease, laughing softly.

“You’ll have to be faster than that, my friend,” she said. At Morgan’s curious look, she smiled.  “Lia was exceptionally fond of Truffle, a Mabari that bonded with her.  They were inseparable.  Even when Truffle refused to submit to a proper scrub.” 

Hinter sniffed his affront that a Mabari could _ever_ actually need a bath.  Leliana relented and crouched, scratching his tattered ear and under his collar, his undocked tail sweeping an arc in the dirt.  For several moments, the only sound was the dog’s happy panting.  Eventually, Leliana looked up, and there was a far off look in her eye.  “It’s strange, how much you are like her,” she murmured.  “You even have a qunari fighting at your side, an elf from an organization of suspect character, not to mention the numerous apostates.”  There was a laugh in the words, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes.  Taking a breath, she stood, smoothing the front of her tunic.  “If you ever wish to talk, you know where to find me.  Good night.”  She gave a small, respectful nod, and left the way they had come.

For a long time, Morgan stared after her, hardly noticing the cold seeping through her clothes and her toes going numb. Hinter took her cuff between his teeth and tugged her out of her reverie.  They retired to her house, Morgan bathing herself in the awaiting hot water.  She cleaned her armor, lighting candles when the last of the light died outside.

 

000

           

Morgan insisted on staying in Haven during the introduction of the Mage Rebellion to the Inquisition’s forces. She had offered them her protection, and she didn’t trust others not to try to undermine the promise if she was not there.  While she _hated_ speaking to crowds, she begged Vivienne and Solas down to speak with her to groups about how to fight when they had non-mage allies fighting in the thick of things.  Morgan had expected Vivienne to be cold and disdainful, but she proved to be a kind and patient teacher.  And she and Solas both understood the importance of teaching the mages, so they did their best to work together.  At least when Morgan was around.

What gave her the most hope was when she saw a Templar and an apostate embrace, clapping each other on the shoulders and smiling. Then, after a quick look around, the Templar passed something to the mage.  Morgan saw a glint of red glass before the mage dropped the object and ground it under her heal with a look of vicious satisfaction.  After they left, Morgan found a small smear of blood mostly hidden by the dirt. 

When she questioned Solas about it, he told her about phylacteries. The horrified face she made as apparently amusing.  Later that same day, Varric told her that once, in Kirkwall, before the rebellion, a group of Templars had destroyed the phylacteries of several mages, trying to help them escape and avoid recapture.  It hadn’t worked, but Morgan was still impressed that they had tried.  She was becoming increasingly glad that her Clan Matriarch had had the sense to keep Cadash business clear of Kirkwall for a while. 

Word came from the Storm Coast that Bandits had set up a hold and were attack supply ships. Morgan—armed with daggers, instead of a bow—took Sera, Solas, and the Iron Bull with her.  Bull and Sera got along famously, but neither of them got along with Solas, so the conversation was either hilarious or full of sniping and growls.  Morgan shared a tent with Sera to prevent Solas’s murder.  Bull at least, seemed to take none of Solas’s jabs personally, and she was fairly certain that if he _did_ murder Solas during the night, it would look like the most innocent of accidents.

Morgan was able to settle matters with the bandits by killing their leader, and they gladly gave that position of power to her. She didn’t quite understand why, but an ally on the coast was a good thing to have.  The Blades of Hessarian—what the bandits called themselves—proved themselves quickly, and after a long, wet journey back to Haven, Leliana informed Morgan that they had already passed on useful information.

Morgan would have liked to continue overseeing the training of the rebel mages, but then an Avvar got it into his head to capture a troop of scouts exploring the Fallow Mire, demanding that Morgan face him in combat. He had no idea what he’d stepped in.

 

000

 

The Fallow Mire was terrible. After _much_ debate, Morgan had ordered Hinter to stay at the camp with the scouts, but only after she had gotten them all to promise to look after him, and after an even longer talk about his behavior and mannerisms, in case they had trouble interpreting.  Eventually, Harding had to shoo the Herald away, and Bull had to put his hands on her shoulders and steer her over to the path.  Sera sniggered as Morgan shouted a few last-minute instructions over her shoulder.  Dorian looked as happy as a drowned cat.

As they squelched their way along the path, Morgan made a mental note to award the cobbler in Haven some kind of commendation. She could do that, right?  She had been expecting the water to start seeping into her boots at any moment, but it never happened.  It would probably change the second she had to wade through undead infested water.  A shudder ran through her, and she hid it with a roll of her shoulders.  While she loved swimming, monsters in the water had starred in all her childhood nightmares; from the saltwater sharks of the ocean, to the massive reptiles rumored to be able to eat whole druffalo alive.  At least bogfishers—the reports mentioned two separate females and their harems of males—left you alone as long as you did the same.

The smell of rotten things came to them on a thick, smoky breeze, the kind you only got when you forced wet things to burn. They found the bodies in front of a boarded up house, the door hanging broken from the hinges.  The half burned corpses were not only rotting, but covered in pustules and sores, and Dorian instantly engulfed them in a white-hot fire, face locked into a permanent frown.  Stepping carefully, Bull moved among them as the fires died, keeping a kerchief over his mouth and touching nothing.  He returned, trying to snort the smell of death from his nose and shake the feel of magic from his skin.

“Looks like a plague,” he muttered, heavy brows pulled together. “No telling how many died.  Months old, and there’s probably more preserved in the bog.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” Morgan muttered.

“Uuuh!” Sera shuddered, arms wrapped around herself.  “Next time you wanna go prancing around a fucking swamp, go without me, yeah?”  She shuddered again.  “They were all slimy…”

“The only one angrier than you about the missing soldiers was Morgan,” Dorian pointed out.

Sera kicked a tuft of grass. “They were jus’ doing’ what they were told by you big hats, and they got grabbed.  ‘S not fair.”

Morgan felt her temper starting to flare again, thinking of the loyal soldiers that had pledged themselves, that _still_ flocked to Haven.  They had been working for _her_ , for the Herald, and they’d been taken because of that.  Balling her hands into fists, she took a few breaths, head turned up towards the sky.  It should have been mid-morning, but the sky was a dark, perpetual gray, and the soggy atmosphere didn’t temper her rage in the slightest.

“Dorian, are fingernails flammable?”

He turned his frown on her now, his mustache drooping. “Why on _earth_ do you want to know that?”

“Figured it would be painful,” Morgan muttered, starting on the path again. Sera made a vaguely disgusted sound and the dwarf actually laughed.  “It’s what they get for dragging in people who aren’t involved.”  The laugh turned bitter, and Bull saw her hands clenching and unclenching as she walked.  She was pissed, itching for a target.  The anger wasn’t new, but the lack of control _was_.  And without Hinter to be immediately concerned about, _he_ was becoming slightly concerned.

She got her target when they finally had to pass through the water. They had searched for almost an hour trying to find some way around the nearly twenty foot expanse of murky water, but to no avail.  Morgan dithered for only a few minutes before she strode out into the water, the splashing making everyone else wince.  The first corpse rose in almost directly in front of Morgan, Sera shouting curses.  Before Dorian could even bring up a barrier, her blades bit into the desiccated throat once, twice, and then she bore it down into the water with the other dagger in its eye.

As the others charged in—Sera running a stream of, “shite, shite, shite!”, and Dorian saying something in Tevene as he hurled fire—Bull swore. The ground was soft and squishy, and his bad ankle wobbled.  But he went in just the same, cutting a swathe through corpses to put himself at Morgan’s back.  They made it to the other shore without injury, but not without Dorian’s pale robes turning a brownish gray from mid-thigh down.  He made a swift motion with his hand and wrist, and he began to _steam_.

“Piss!” Sera jumped back, eying the signs of magic warily.  Morgan felt answering warmth in her left hand, and tilted her head curiously.  The shine of wetness left his hair and skin, and he stopped dripping.

“You sneaky bastard,” Morgan said, a grin curling the corner of her mouth. “You can dry yourself?  Without burning or anything?”

“It has become a necessity since coming south, I’m afraid,” he said wearily. “I’m not sure how you southerners stay dry.”

“Aren’t parts of Tevinter jungle?” Morgan pointed out. “They sound pretty damp to me.”  Dorian just snorted.  “Anyway, can you do me?”

Sera and Bull stared at their leader, both different levels of aghast. “You’d let ‘im cook your clothes?” Sera said in disbelief, taking a few more steps back.  “He could boil you in your armor like those… those creepy… water scorpion things!”

“Lobsters,” Bull supplied.

“Yeah, those! He could boil you like a lobster!”

“Or I could walk around slightly less than soaked. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m very short, and what comes up to your waist is basically chest height for me.”

“Psh! Not my fault you’re all little and smooshy.”

Morgan’s smile was very real when she turned it on Sera, and Bull was glad to see the expression; it had been a while. She looked back to Dorian.  “I’m less likely to burn anyway, but don’t set my clothes on fire.”

“Most dwarves I’ve met aren’t keen on magic, or just don’t care,” Dorian said, extending his hand out in Morgan’s direction.

“Mum always said I was born under strange stars,” Morgan said, sucking in a breath when she felt warmth prickle across her skin. She had expected her clothes to just get warm, but the heat started on her skin and worked its way out.  The Mark tingled in a strange sort of harmony, and she giggled nervously as steam started to rise, pushing out the smell of wet leather and wool. 

It didn’t take very long, and when Dorian was done, Morgan was grinning again. “That was… odd.”  A thought struck her, and her shoulders sagged in disappointment.  “You prolly shouldn’t do that again, though.  I mean, I brought a couple extra lyrium vials, but I don’t want you expending your mana needlessly.”

Dorian sniffed, brushing off the genuine concern for his well-being with a wave of his hand. “I shall inform you if I run low.” 

Sera rolled her eyes, and shivered. “Piss, I hate this place.  Let’s go before more creepy crawlies show up.”

 

000

 

There were lots more ‘creepy crawlies’. Most of the bridges that had once connected the numerous small islands had been rotted away, or destroyed on purpose.  There were also ancient beacons where Dorian said the Veil hummed and buzzed in a way he was unfamiliar with.  Sera made a show of rolling her eyes and not caring, until the demons showed up, a wave of corpses led by Terrors.  Morgan was glad that Hinter wasn’t there; who knew what diseases the gray, mostly skeletal bodies might carry.  Despite her concern about wasting mana, Dorian burned every single one of them.

They had cleared two beacons when they found the first Avvar camp. They were camped in the corner of what had probably been a building many ages ago, the stone slick and worn smooth by frequent rain.  They had strapped hides over the top of the wall for a shelter, and carried their weapons close or kept them within reach.  There were five of them, and Morgan wanted to slit all their throats.  But she kept her head, biting the inside of her cheek until she felt a bright burst of pain and tasted blood.  She prodded it with her tongue, using the pain to draw herself back.  The Avvar were speaking, heavily accented, but not beyond understanding.

“Think the Herald will come?”

“She better. What kind of leader leaves her people to the mercy of their enemies?”

“She’s a Lowlander; she’ll probably just send more troops while she stays holed up in some fancy castle.” There were shared chuckles among the group.

“It’s not like it’ll matter,” another said finally. “Word is, once he kills her, Hand of Korth will have them executed after they watch their Herald’s head paraded on a pike.  He was talking about taking that woman back, though.  The one with the pink skin and sunny hair?  Said she was strong and would bring good blood to the Hold.”

Bull realized that Morgan had left his side a moment too late, and then there was screaming. Smoke curled around Morgan’s feet, her dagger stabbed through an Avvar’s chin and into the roof of his mouth.  He was still alive, choking on blood, whites showing around his eyes as he stared down at the woman before him.  Someone behind Morgan yelled, and she ducked, sweeping around the side to get behind the woman lunging at her with a sword.   One dagger bit into the woman’s side, twisting her around and leaving her throat open.  Morgan opened it in a single slash, not even feeling the drops that splattered her face.

She felt the bite of fire and pain as an impact jarred her from behind. She dove forward, using her arm to guide her roll and get back to her feet.  A woman was brandishing a torch in one hand and a sword in the other.  She lunged in, sure and practiced in her movements.  Morgan let her come, feeling the fire singe her cheek as she dove between torch and sword, thrusting both daggers upwards.  They cut through the hide armor and into the woman’s soft belly, and Morgan _twisted_.

The Avvar woman looked so shocked, dropping her weapons and trying to grab at the smaller woman. Morgan yanked her blades back, hearing a thump and a strangled noise as one Avvar fell to an arrow, and then the crackle of lightning as the other was struck dead by Dorian.  Morgan’s enemy fell back, clutching her stomach as red began to stain her armor, the iron stink of blood and ruptured intestine wafting for a moment on the air.  Dorian stepped forward and slit her throat with the edge of his staff blade, a mercy Morgan hadn’t even contemplated.

When she looked up, there was something pained in Dorian’s eyes, and she looked away, fishing a rag from a pocket to clean the blood off her face and weapons. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, keeping her face neutral while her heart continued to pound in her chest, even as the thrum of adrenaline began to ebb.  Bull’s familiar, slightly uneven footsteps sounded behind her, and her chest tightened when she heard Sera made a noise of disgust.

“Shit, Morgan. Who knew you were so dangerous and pointy!  Gonna have to tell Varric, yeah?”  There was a laugh in her voice, the same laugh she used when someone said something dirty in the Singing Maiden back in Haven.  And Morgan wanted to laugh, too.  She felt the smile on her lips, felt her cheeks pull and her eyes crinkle…  And then she felt sick.  It was _fun_.  Rushing in, killing the Avvar, and coming out on top had been _fun_. 

And, Maker forgive her, Bull was smiling, too. He was _proud_.  She had taken what he’d taught her and used it.  There was respect in his gaze, and Morgan’s chest felt so tight that it hurt to breathe.  She had made him _proud_ , because she had _killed_ people.  The killing felt good.  Even as she tried to struggle away from it, the rush of victory still sang inside her, something ancient and primal, older than her fears, older than any instinct she could name.

“They’ll certainly think twice about attacking the Inquisition now,” Dorian said, kneeling by one of the bodies that had fallen closest to the camp. He rummaged carefully in the bag hanging across their chest, pulling out a packet of papers bound in oilskin.  He leafed through drawings and scrawl that had no meaning to the others, before pausing.  “Didn’t Harding mention something about an old castle?”

The paper he held out had a sketch of a ruined castle drawn in spidery lines. Below it was the drawing of a massive gate and portcullis.  There were lines of pictograms scrawled on the side, and Morgan’s brows came together.  “Can you make anything of that?” she asked, pointing.

The Altus laughed. “I read and speak Tevene, Common, Antivan, and Orlesian, and read a bit of Rivaini and Elvhen.  But I’m afraid this is beyond me.”

“I’ll have a look then,” Bull offered, holding out his hand. Dorian raised a brow, still holding the page.  Bull said something then in a language only Dorian seemed to understand, and the Mage’s brown skin flushed.  He handed over the paper without a word, and Bull looked it over like nothing had happened.

A furrow sprouted between Bull’s brows as he considered the paper, stepping under the hide ceiling to keep off the rain that was starting to come down in a soft drizzle. “Something about the ‘Hand’—or ‘Instrument’?—of some god or spirit.  Mostly just says for everyone to fall back to the castle.”  He tapped the drawing.  “There’s gonna be a lot of undead though.  These guys were probably stragglers.”

“Is there anything you can’t do, Bull?” Morgan asked with a weary smile, trying to shove away the tightness still holding her chest.

“I’m not so good at darts,” Bull said, tapping his eyepatch and grinning as Sera snorted. It was impossible not to smile, and Morgan shook her head.  She wanted to move on, and after a quick search of the camp, that was exactly what they did.  They waded through more water, and killed dozens more undead.  Dorian found Veil Fire runes done by a mage he assured them was ‘quite unhinged’.  And all that was before they made it to the third beacon. 

As they fought the demons and corpses, Morgan could feel the tingle of a Rift in her fingers, but couldn’t see anything. Of course this rotten, soggy place would have a _Rift_ , too.  She also decided that there would be as little permanent posting here as possible, if a military presence became a necessity.  No one should have to live there constantly, and there would be frequent rotation.  The next group of Avvar attacked out of the fog, the biggest of them swinging down at Morgan with a massive broadsword. 

As she dropped and rolled to the side, Morgan sliced at his legs, cutting a gash across both shins before Bull stepped in to engage. If there hadn’t been another warrior bearing down on Morgan with a sword, she would have liked to watch Bull fight; the human he was facing was almost as tall as he was, if not as wide.  Instead she spun out of the way of a downward swing, moving in a circular motion to open the side of his arm.  He snarled, lashing out, but she had already ducked back under his sword, slicing under his sword arm, severing tendons and an artery.

“Down!” Morgan dropped without a thought, keeping a tight grip on her daggers.  A flaming arrow exploded in the Avvar’s face, and then a blast of force put him on the ground.  Morgan pushed back to her feet in time for pain to burst in her shoulder, shoving her forward and making her loose her balance.  Her curse was muffled by the mud, and her eyes stung with grit.  Something that felt vaguely like a boot slammed into the back of her head, and bright colors burst behind her eyelids. 

Slashing blindly before another foot could trap her wrist, Morgan felt her dagger connect with _something_.  A man’s voice screamed unintelligible obscenities, and Morgan felt a rush of cold above her.  She rolled away, her head still spinning.  There was a roar, and then the squelching shatter as Bull’s ax connected with a frozen enemy.  As everything went still and quiet, Morgan sat up, pulling off her glove to rub at her muddied eyes. 

“Here.” Sera’s hands were chilled when she pressed the wet rag to Morgan’s face, batting the dwarf’s own hands away.  “That was an awesome fucking tumble, yeah?” she said.  “ _Right_ down in the muck!” 

Her giggle was infectious, and Morgan opened one watering eye, a grin cracking her scowl. “The falling doesn’t hurt much; I’m already pretty close to the ground.  The _stomping_ , on the other hand…”  Her watery vision swam, and she put out a hand to brace on Sera’s shoulder. 

“Here, Boss.” Bull’s voice was familiar and warm, and the potion bottle he pressed to her lips was cool, smelling of elfroot; a healing potion.  Morgan tilted her head back as he tipped the bottle up, downing the bright and bitter liquid.  When that was done, Sera splashed water on her face, and handed over the rag to Bull.  When Morgan’s vision cleared, she saw that Bull had a gash on his shoulder, and Sera was sporting the start of a colorful black eye and a split lip.  Dorian’s pale robes were splattered with a frighteningly large arc of blood, but from the way he moved, Morgan was fairly sure that none of it was his.

“Oh, shit.” Morgan looked back to Bull, who had moved to crouch at her side, his eyes trained on something slightly behind her.

“What?” She tried to turn, but was met with a sharp pain, something twisting out of her view as her body moved.  “Shitfuck!”

“Boss, don’t move.” Bull put a steadying hand on her arm, cupping her elbow.  The pain was getting clearer now, and the taste of elfroot and bile surged in the back of her throat as Morgan realized there was an arrow in her shoulder.  She swore again, biting the inside of her cheek as Bull moved further behind her.  “You really are a shit-magnet, aren’t you boss?” he said, and the shift of his horns gave away the dubious shake of his head.

“Just get it out,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. She felt his hand circle her waist, the heel of his hand braced on the small of her back.  His other fingers brushed the shaft of the arrow, and he felt her flinch and tense, the numbing effect of adrenaline fading fast. 

Sera came around, crouching beside him. More fingers probed Morgan’s shoulder, and she sucked in a breath, eyes starting to sting.  But she refused to cry, and forced her trembling shoulder to relax.  “The head’s only _just_ in there,” Sera muttered, nose scrunched up and lip curled. 

“That’s what she said,” Bull muttered, and Sera dissolved into stifled, snorting giggles.

“Maker help me,” Morgan sighed. “I’m going to die while you do puns.”

“Well we’re not _doing_ anything else,” Bull said, coming around to undo the sash at Morgan’s waist.  Sera snorted, and shifted behind Morgan.  Morgan was too focused on the hot, throbbing pain in her shoulder to be flustered as Bull took off her armor with surprising ease, Sera doing her part to work the items carefully off the arrow without tugging on it.  Finally, stripped down her chainmail, Bull offered her a folded portion of her belt.  “Lean on me, and bite this.”

“Fuck.” Morgan swallowed, but opened her mouth and bit down on the leather.  It was certainly better than biting her own tongue.  Leaning forward, she rested her brow on Bull’s collar bone, breathing deeply through her nose.  Even in pain, she still registered the musky, hot metal tang of his skin.  One hand lifted to grab the strap of his harness, and she felt Sera brace her palm against the wound.

“I can just see the head, so the barbs haven’t dug in yet,” Sera said, and Morgan supposed it was meant to be reassuring. Then she pulled, and Morgan bit down on the soggy leather. 

Blunt fingernails dug into Bull’s skin, and he stayed steady as the dwarf curled in towards him for a brief moment. Then Sera was pouring a healing potion over the wound, setting the rest aside.  Morgan’s breath huffed against his chest, warm in comparison to the chilly, damp air.  Slowly, she drew back, throwing a venomous glare at the sky—and probably thinking something rude to her Maker—before she spat out the belt and met Bull’s eyes.  “I hate you both,” she grunted.

“Sooo, you want this back in, then?” Sera said, reaching around to wag the bloody arrow in Morgan’s face.

“About as much as you wanna see Dorian naked,” Morgan muttered. Sera cackled, and Dorian looked deeply offended.

“We gotta look at the wound, Boss,” Bull put in.

“You’re just looking for an excuse to see my tits again.”

“Again? Wait, he’s seen your tits before?”  Sera looked both curious and slightly disturbed.

“She was injured, and we were out of potions,” Bull sniffed, feigning hurt while he helped Morgan out of her chainmail.

With her one hand, Morgan’s wasn’t much use, so she had to submit to the large, muscular qunari undressing her. Even with pain throbbing insistently in her shoulder—deadened slightly by the topical application of potion—she still felt a blush creeping up her cheeks.  Bull wasn’t thinking of anything beyond looking at the wound, and there she was, body tugged and shifted by his deft movements.  It should _not_ be that arousing to have a comrade undress her to examine a wound.  Fortunately, Sera found another subject to focus on.

“Fucks sake, Morgan! How do you not fall over with those?” 

She was pointing at Morgan’s chest, laced firmly into her stay but with cleavage still brimming. Bull rolled his eyes, and moved to sit behind Morgan, nudging the elf out of the way.  Sera showed no qualms about staring at the dwarf’s chest, and Morgan was too busy hoping that the fabric of her stay hadn’t been damaged.

“Are you sure you’re not packing melons?” Sera demanded.

“I wish. I could eat the melons,” Morgan replied.

“You could kill someone with ditties that size.” The elf was laughing now, and Dorian looked skyward with a pleading expression.  “Oh!  Tattoos!” 

Bull put the potion in Morgan’s hand, and cleaned the wound with salve. It sat just on the edge of her stay, so the garment was a bit stained, but otherwise intact.  While she sat, sipping the potion, Morgan told Sera about her tattoos, both the ones visible on her torso, and the ones on her legs.  Sera leaned forward and showed a simple image of a honey be tattooed behind her left ear.  It brought the mood right up, and Bull pretended to ignore the fact that Morgan blushed when she looked back at him.

 

000

 

They found the Rift on a large swathe of land, a bit higher up and slightly drier underfoot. But this Rift wasn’t spitting demons.  It was closed, but ready to burst open at the slightest provocation.  Dorian said that to get rid of if permanently, Morgan would have to open it, kill all the demons, and _then_ seal it.  That was the plan until they noticed the largest human that Morgan had ever seen.  They recognized his Avvar armor after his size, and everyone readied weapons when he looked their way.  Instead of hefting his massive war hammer, he looked them over, made a noise of disinterest, and turned his attention back to the Rift.

 _‘He knows something. He_ has _to.’_

Morgan approached without any sign fear, even though the man was almost as tall _and_ wide as the Iron Bull, and despite the fact she wanted to climb up his back and slice his throat.  But he hadn’t attacked, and actually looked down at her when she came to stand before him, patiently waiting for her to speak.  She swallowed once, and squared her shoulders.  “I’m the Herald of Andraste.  Where are my soldiers?” she demanded.

Something brightened in his eyes, though it was difficult to tell for sure, with the face paint and fur hood. “So _you’re_ the one the welp wants to fight,” he said, voice deep and thick with accent.  But his common was flawless.  “They were all alive, last time I saw them.  They killed more of us than I thought they would.”

“Good,” Morgan said, her smile as sharp as the daggers on her back. _The ones she wanted in her hands, in his throat—_ no.  She broke off the thoughts and wiped the smile from her face.  “Why aren’t _you_ trying to kill us?”

If Morgan had been anyone else, she would have cringed at the angry growl the man held in the back of his throat. “I’m not here for a welp’s bloody trophy hunt,” he said bitterly.  “I’m called in when the dead pile up.  Mending for the bleeding, a dagger for the dying.”

“Did any of my people die?”

“Like I said, they were alive, last I saw them.” He turned back to the Rift.

Dorian slid up behind Morgan. “Most people are scared of the Rifts, not fascinated.”

“Most _Lowlanders_ , maybe,” the Avvar snorted.

The mage nudged Morgan with his hip, looking between her hand, the Rift, the Avvar, and back again. She blinked at him for a few moments, then thrust out her hand.  Just because this man wasn’t taking part in whatever scheme the ‘welp’ had set up, didn’t mean Morgan liked him.  His look of surprise when demons poured from the air was more than worth the ensuing fight.  Morgan took out as much fury as she could on the demons, screaming back when they tried to roar at her.  Some of them actually seemed surprised before they died.

When it was over, the Avvar stared at her. “You can mend the gaps in the air?”  It was hard not to be a bit smug.  After that, their conversation was much more animated, with less harsh hostile undertones.

 

000

 

 

The road to the gates was swarming with undead, some of them with armor that hadn’t yet rotted away. The smell of so many corpses in one place was enough to make their eyes water and their stomachs threaten to toss up the hardtack and dried meat they’d eaten that morning. Dorian produced a small brass spyglass, and informed the others that beyond the open gate, more Avvar were waiting for them.  There were too many undead to fight with just four people, even if Bull could have been counted as two or three.  Burning them all would drain Dorian’s mana, and Sera didn’t have enough grenades.  They’d have to run it.

“Nugshit,” Morgan muttered, bending a few times at the knees and rotating her ankles. Her anger was starting to bubble again, and she fixed her eyes on the shape of the people beyond the undead, the ones that had taken Inquisition soldiers.  Focusing on them gave her a target, gave the swirling, violent thoughts in her head a place to go.

“You can take the Grand Enchanter next time!” Dorian shouted as they surged forward. “Or Solas!  He’d love this creepy place!” 

A single blast of force from his staff cleared a temporary path ahead. Bull shoulder-checked several corpses as they went past, widening the way ahead as Morgan followed close behind.  She thanked the Maker that while undead were certainly dangerous, they were slow.  Sera even managed to keep from shouting a stream of curses as she sprinted out ahead of all of them, and for a moment, Morgan sorely envied the younger woman’s long, elvhen legs. 

The moment they were all under the arch, Bull swung his ax with everything he had at the rusted chain to his left. Sera shot an explosive arrow at the pulley on the other side, and the portcullis came crashing down, keeping the undead outside.  Now it was just them and the Avvar.  Bull charged a big man with a greatsword, and quickly felt Morgan’s weight as she grabbed the back of his harness and ran up his back.  Pushing off from his shoulders, she came down behind the Avvar, jamming a dagger into each kidney.

There was no time to rejoice in the successful execution of the move they had been practicing for weeks. Arrows started to rain down from the walkway above, the archers screaming curses and jeers at them.  Morgan bared her teeth through the mask of blood, looking like some furious ancient warrior for a brief moment before she dropped out of sight and into Stealth.  As more warriors surged towards Bull, Dorian and Sera focused on the archers, Dorian keeping barriers up around them all.

Bull heard a strangled scream, and looked up in time to see a man fall over the rail of the walkway above, a bloody gash in his side. There was a flicker in the shadows, and then Morgan was moving on, blades leaving a splatter of blood in their wake.  Bull felt a surge of pride at seeing her deadly efficiency in action, but it was tangled up in worry.  She wasn’t a violent person, and had abhorred killing people.  He had vague details of what had happened in Redcliffe, but he was certain that there had to be more to it for Morgan to take such a sharp turn.  But there was no time now.  The Avaar knew that they were losing, and were throwing all their strength into one last ‘Hail Andraste’.  They were strong too.

Even so, the fight didn’t last much longer. Sera, Dorian, and Bull found Morgan along the walkway, leaning against the rail and breathing hard.  She could feel her hands starting to shake, and fumbled for a rag to clean the blood from her daggers.  The scent of blood clung to her now, and she knew that it would remain with her until they returned to Haven.  Her stomach twisted and heaved, but she swallowed the bile down.  There was no time for softness, and she refocused on her anger, biting the inside of her cheek until it bled.

“Got a nice shiner going there, Boss,” Bull remarked, pointing to the color already starting to bloom around her left eye.

“The good news is, you look good in red,” Dorian said.

“Euh!” Sera wrinkled her nose, and Bull snorted. 

Morgan’s lips twitched, unsure of the expression she should be wearing. She settled for an empty mask, and pushed away from the rail, sheathing one of her daggers.  “Think this is the mechanism for the back gate,” she mumbled, even Sera able to hear the tightness in her voice.  But they still followed, and Bull had to lean hard on the rusted leaver to get it to move. 

Bull let Morgan lead them down, watching her hip make her wobble only once. He was the only one that heard her quite curse, and the way she had to swallow down another surge of nausea.  Warning bells were going off in his head, dim and distant, but still there.  But they were so close, and he knew she would react very poorly to him telling her she needed rest.  Once on the path again, Morgan started a jog, daggers ready for more undead or Avvar.

Dorian may not have been a spy, and was about as far from a smuggler or soldier as one could get. But being born and bred in the upper echelons of Tevinter, meant he had an above average grasp of body language and how to read people.  He could see the desperation in Morgan’s eyes, the way she continued to bite her lip even though it was raw and swollen.  He knew what she’d seen in the future, and was only just starting to grasp how greatly it had affected her.  She would have to talk to someone eventually.

 

000

 

The castle was ruin, long since taken over by nature and the elements. Morgan found a brass button, smashed and deformed, but still bearing the sigil of the Inquisition.  There was a rushing sound in her ears, everything else fading away to a high-pitched whine.  Straightening up, she took the stairs two at a time until she reached the top, standing in what had probably once been an impressive doorway.  Standing on a dias made for a throne, an Avvar nearly as big as the Sky Watcher stood, red hair and beard a fiery halo around a pale face.

“Herald of Andraste, face me!” he bellowed.

The whine changed, pulsing in time with her blood as it pounded in her ears. She had never hated another person more in her life.  And, tied in a strangle-hold around her hate, was her _guilt_.  Her fault, her fault, her _fault_!  It was all _her_ fault!  He’d done this because of _her_.  Because of the mark on _her_ hand.  She saw the archers getting ready, heard the yells of the warriors, and Bull’s lessons filled her head, his words washing over her, muscles twitching with the memory.  The calm that settled over her then would be described later as ‘deeply unsettling’. 

She kept enough of her wits about her not to charge in alone, keeping level with Bull as Dorian threw up barriers, and Sera dropped arrows from behind. The Avvar’s war cries were joyous and full of excitement, and Morgan hated them.  They laughed and shouted to each other while they had locked away injured Inquisition soldiers.  What little sympathy she had had, what will she’d had to try and understand the different culture, it all melted away.  She and Bull painted the ancient stone red with arc after arc of blood, limbs dropping to the floor, heads rolling.  And screaming, so much screaming.

Morgan wasn’t even aware they’d fought their way up the steps to the Hand of Korth until they were in front of him. Bull engaged from the front with his axe, while Morgan danced behind him, slicing at his joints and soft spots in his armor.  He wore more metal than the others, and moved almost as fast as Bull.  But he was young, and believed himself invincible.  And what could a tiny dwarf do the mighty Hand of Korth?

As it turned out, a very great deal.

Everyone was amazed when slicing the tendons at the back of one knee didn’t bring him down. Bull kicking the front of that knee did.  The Hand of Korth swung his hammer in a wide, desperate arc, making Bull leap back.  But their foe over extended, and the war hammer slipped from his hands.  Morgan felt like she was floating as she appeared before him, laying her dagger firmly across his throat.  It sent a little thrill through her to watch the big body go tense, and fear flash in the gray eyes as they met hers.

“What fucking right do you have to touch my people?” she spat, voice icy and dripping poison.

The Hand of Korth had the gall to laugh, a big deep sound that grated on her ears.  “The right of conquest, Herald!  I wished to face you.  What better way to get your attention that to take some of your men?”

“What do you _want_?” Morgan growled, and Bull could see something frantic in her eyes.  He edged a bit closer.

Another laugh. “Want?  To fight you!  To see if your Andraste was stronger than Korth!”  He spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The rushing whine was back, and Morgan forgot there was anyone else there. “You attacked my people, _hurt_ them, threatened to take one back for _breeding_ … just to fight me?”  Her voice was a whisper, sharp and precise.

The Avvar just tilted his head and shrugged, still wearing that stupid smile. Morgan screamed.  The sound tore her throat and became ragged, and she smashed the pommel of her dagger into the side of his head.  Bone cracked with the force, blood running down the side of his face, eyes fluttering as he swayed.  She hit him again, smashing in his nose with her fist, adrenaline and rage keeping her from feeling two of her fingers snap.  The Hand of Korth went down, and Morgan followed, daggers clattering to the floor.  Again and again she hit him, blood smearing her gloves and splattering the floor.  A tooth cut a knuckle, something popped, and she kept going, completely unaware that he had stopped moving. 

“Morgan!” An arm grabbed her around the middle, hauling her back.  Snarling, she lashed out with her foot, kicking the Avvar’s face and making his broken jaw gape open.  Bull put his palm to Morgan’s forehead and pressed her head back against his chest.  “The soldiers, Boss,” Bull said in her ear, not even blinking when she kicked him in the knee.  “We have to find the Inquisition soldiers.”

His low voice cut through, the meaning of the words following. Slowly, Morgan stopped struggling, and went still.  She nodded, swallowing hard.  “Soldiers, yeah.”  Her voice was little more than a croak, her bloody, aching hands starting to tremble.  Bull released her slowly, one hand lingering on the small of her back as she limped around and down the stairs.  They could hear the shouting now, and Morgan found the door easily.  She broke three lock picks on the ancient, rusted lock before Bull pressed the key he’d lifted from the body into her hands.

The door swung open, and relief washed over Morgan in a wave so strong she almost staggered. The faces of the soldiers— _her_ soldiers—all turned, and the delight on their faces made her eyes burn with tears.  But she blinked them away, using all her strength to put on a calm, benevolent face.  She could feel the blood starting to dry, and her skin was starting to itch.

“It’s the Herald…”

“I told you she’d come.”

Morgan’s head snapped around, and met the blue eyes of an older male. He looked at her with such reverence; he probably _had_ told the others, reassured them that Herald of Andraste would save them from the Avvar.  And he’d also probably believed every word.  He was older than her, had seen more, and for some reason, he had put all of his trust in some carta dwarf who had the most Maker-fucked luck in the world.  Her throat tightened again.

“Is everyone alright?” she managed, throat still hoarse from screaming.

A woman with a captain’s badge and a swollen, bruised jaw stepped forward, crossing her arm over her chest and thumping her fist over her heart in salute. “A bit worse for wear, Your Worship, but we can return to camp on our own.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Morgan said sharply. “I won’t leave you to stumble through the undead down the road.”  She saw a protest bubbling up and rushed to continue.  “You’ve fought hard, and you deserve the rest.  We know a path back to the camp that avoids the corpses.  I’ll go and get a medic and some gear sent to you.”  She turned to Dorian and Sera.  “Dorian, can you start a fire to warm everyone up?  Sera, I need you to stay with him; I’m taking Bull back to camp.”

“Psh, don’t have to tell me twice,” Sera said, dropping down on one of the chests with a heavy grunt.

“A nice dry fire it is,” Dorian agreed.

“Bull?” Morgan caught Bull’s eye before she left the room, moving hurriedly past the corpses.  The moment they were out of sight and earshot of the soldiers, she slumped against the wall, staring blankly ahead.

Stepping closer than he usually would, Bull looked her over quickly. She had gone pale under the dirt and drying blood, and her hands were shaking worse than before.  “Hey,” he said softly.  Morgan looked up, and it twisted something inside him to see her looking so lost.  She didn’t have the energy to keep her mask up any more.  “I wanna look at your hands and wrists, and I need to touch you in order to get things off.  Is that okay?”

It took her a moment to get her body to comply, but she nodded. He helped her out of her pauldrons, bracers, and gloves, hanging them on what had probably been a sconce on the wall before it rusted and broke.  Morgan’s already scarred hands were even more of a mess than usual, the skin of her knuckles torn and bloody.  Two fingers were obviously broken, and another looked dislocated.  “Gotta see what’s broken.  Can I touch your hands?”

“Don’ gotta ask,” Morgan mumbled, lifting her hands for him.

“Yes I do, Boss.” His large, calloused fingers were blessedly gentle, even though it hurt enormously when he palpated along the broken bones.  Morgan tried to keep the tears in, but they overflowed and ran down her cheeks in streams, cutting streaks through the blood.  Breathing hard through her nose, she clenched her jaw against the pain and the whimpers clawing at the back of her throat.  She had to refocus her eyes when Bull put the cool glass of a potion bottle against her lips.  “Drink,” he said, tipping it slightly.  “All of it.”  Morgan complied wordlessly.  “That’ll take care of the breaks, but I have to get this one back in socket, okay, Boss?”  He touched the tip of her right thumb, and she flinched.  “Yeah, I know.  Can you count to three for me?”

A wry smile tried to work its way over her face. “I know that trick; you’re just gonna pull when I—FUCK!”  Bull hadn’t wasted any time, and gave a small smile as the dwarf glared up at him reproachfully.  “You’re a sadist,” she muttered, sniffing wetly.

“Usually just in bed,” he said with a grin. “And _only_ upon informed and negotiated request.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Morgan knew that Bull talking like that would _normally_ have made her blush.  Not because it made her uncomfortable, but because it _excited_ her.  But that part of her was very far away, shrouded in feelings too fuzzy and numerous to put names to.  A shudder ran through her as the potion started to do its work, zeroing in on the bones on her fingers.  She felt the heat drawn to the digits, and grit her teeth against the slow, grinding sensation as the bones were knitted back together.  Bull kept his attention on them, manipulating the brakes into proper position for healing. 

“Bull, I… The Hand of Korth…”  Her voice cracked, wavering dangerously.

“You did good, Boss,” he said quietly.

“But I didn’t… I didn’t have to…” Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed hard.  “I could’ve just—!”  Another lurch, and this time she couldn’t hold back, spinning to the side and vomiting onto the stone.  Bull kept a hand on her back the whole time, rubbing in gentle circles as she emptied her stomach, body heaving until there was nothing left.  The tears renewed, and she couldn’t stop, the dry heaves turning to wracking sobs.

Bull caught her before she dropped, easing her down onto one of the stones and crouching beside her. She tried to turn away from him, shame twisting her face even further.  Bull just pulled an oversized handkerchief from somewhere, wiping gently at her face and mouth.  He didn’t begrudge her breaking down.  She had never been a leader, and would probably never have chosen to be one if given the option.  But she had _become_ a leader all the same, putting her life on the line for those that fought in her name.  Each life _mattered_ to her.  It was admirable, but she’d have to learn to distance herself if she wanted to continue to be effective.  He believed she could do it.  There was fire there, a strength and will to overcome that he believed could carry her through anything.

“Bastard deserved it,” he finally said, pinning her with a level stare. “You’re _allowed_ to be angry, Boss.  You’ve got more reason than most, actually.  It’s okay to be pissed when the world keeps heaping shit on you.”

Morgan grit her teeth and shook her head, breaking from his gaze. “No!  It’s _not_ ,” she said through clenched teeth, eyes still bright with tears.  “I can’t be Morgan.  Morgan is weak and stupid and frightened and is never fucking good enough to—!”

“Hey!” Bull grabbed her jaw roughly, forcing her to look at him again.  “It was Morgan that survived the Conclave, that faced the Templars and the Chantry in Val Royeaux.  Morgan’s the one that made the Hinterlands safe for the refugees, that saved the Mage Rebellion from a fucking Magister!  Morgan— _you_ —did all that.”

“But if it’s not enough you’ll _die_!” she whimpered.  “I can’t do it!  I can’t see you die again!”

He stopped, and let his hand drop away. Silence fell between them, broken by her quiet, hiccupping sobs.  It took Bull several moments to formulate a response.  “I assumed we were all dead in that shitshow you saw,” he said quietly.

Morgan shook her head, sucking in a wet breath. “I just saw you and Cassandra.  You… You were sick.  Red lyrium was killing you.”  She choked, struggling to breathe through the tears.  “I saw you die for me.  I saw the demon throw you down… You were dying, but still tried to…  It kicked you off like garbage and I couldn’t—”  She choked on the words, unable to continue.

Realization came easily. “You’re afraid that you’ll fail and have to see all that happen again,” he murmured. 

“I’m doing my best,” she whispered, “but my best has never, _ever_ been good enough.”

“Your father tell you that?” Morgan flinched, and Bull scowled down at the floor.  “Thought so.  Well, first off, never put me in a room with him, cuz something heavy might fall on his head.  Second,” he took hold of her jaw again, grip much gentler than before, “he was wrong.  There’s nothing wrong with striving to do better, but each of us—you, me, Cassandra—can only do our best.  Your best is all that you’re capable of, and that’s okay.”

 At first, Morgan didn’t understand why Bull’s words made her want to cry again. Then she realized that it had been years since someone had told her that she was enough, and had _meant_ it.  Broken as she was, Bull truly believed that her best was enough.  He didn’t fault her for stumbling, for falling down sometimes, so long as she kept getting back up.  She stared at his face, waiting for that belief to fall away, waiting to see the disappointment and judgement.  It didn’t come, and she wanted to cry all over again.  He really thought she had it in her to succeed.  Did he know how heavy that faith was?  How precious?

If Bull believed in her, Morgan felt like she could do anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCfPjG9VDsq88a4hNkmqmjYg/playlists?view=1&sort=dd&shelf_id=0 I have made a playlist of songs that I like for Morgan, if anyone wants to listen. Next chapter will focus on the events of In Your Heart Shall Burn.


	11. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go, big plot point! Mentions of suicidal thoughts towards the end, but nothing graphic.

 

They would be making the trek back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes at dawn. The sky was still dark, but Morgan was already out of bed, chewing on a piece of hardtack that she’d smeared with raspberry jam.  She had awoken with powerful cramps, blood in her smalls, and a stomach that both growled in hunger but heaved at the idea of eggs or bacon.  It was days like that made Morgan wonder if she really _was_ god-touched.  Who else but someone touched by the Bride of the Maker would start her monthlies the same day she was supposed to close the giant hole in the sky?  It was almost funny. 

Almost.

Hinter had refused to move from bed, even though it was obvious the town was stirring beyond the door. When Morgan accused him of being lazy, he huffed, and burrowed his big head back under the blankets.  He only roused when a knock came at the door.  Morgan opened it, taking the offered bowl of meat and vegetables that was usually delivered at dawn.  The servant grunted, turning and wondering back into the dark, their lantern bobbing along with them.  While Hinter ate, Morgan pulled her hair back.  With the assistance of a few pins, it had grown long enough to tie at the nape of her neck again, even if the tail was still quite short.

Having bathed the previous night, she dressed in fresh clothes, laying a cloth pad in her smalls and stuffing several more in one of her belt pouches. She thought bitterly of the midwife healer that had been giving her charms since her first monthly bleeding, missing the woman’s kind manner and laughing eyes.  She still had the last charm, buried at the bottom of her chest, but its magic was long spent.  When it had gone, her monthlies had returned with an angry vengeance that was unfortunately familiar.  Another knock on the door came when she had just finished lacing her grieves.  Another servant—one of Josephine’s scribes—came with a tall, steaming mug of strong black tea, and Morgan forced a sovereign on her in thanks.

The bitter liquid went down between mouthfuls of jam and hardtack, her fussy stomach grudgingly accepting it. After armoring herself, she armored Hinter, who had been trying to return to bed after finishing his meal.  Once both were ready, they stepped out into a gray, dim light.  She had an hour yet before things would be truly under way, and decided to spend them with the people that had known her before she was the Herald.

Sh’vara and Asala were already awake, Asala getting ready to join the other mages for their part in closing the Breach. None of them said much, standing in front of the brazier that blazed before their tents, the blind qunari putting an arm around the dwarf’s shoulders.  Their quite assurances before she left meant more to her than she had words to express.  As much as she hated lying to them, she put on her best hopeful smile.  They might see through to her terror, they might not.

Bull certainly did.

“You chew the inside of your cheek when you’re worried,” he explained while they sat together. “I’m guessing you used to bite your lip?”  She nodded silently.  “When they trained you, they probably impressed how important outward presentation is, so you started doing something harder to notice.  You’re doing it right now, boss.”

It was hard to spit out the inside of one’s cheek, but Morgan felt tempted to try. “I do it so much now I barely notice when I do it,” she admitted, hands fidgeting in front of her.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Bull said. “You’re about to wave your hand at a giant hole in the sky, let mages pour magic into you, and hope it doesn’t blow you to pieces.”

“ _So_ helpful, Bull,” Morgan muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smiled at her, and something in her chest… _fluttered_.  “Honestly, I’m pretty sure you’ve got this.  You’ve pulled so much out of your ass that this next thing shouldn’t be an issue.”

Morgan snorted, but her smile came all the same. She took a deep, steadying breath.  And then another.  “Bull?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Will you come with me?” She knew that it was a lot to ask him, to stand around while untested magic played out in front of him.  Her chest went from fluttering to going tight, heat prickling under her skin.  “You don’t have to!” she hurried to add.  “You’ve just been there for pretty much everything, and…”  She scrambled for words.  “And I’d hate for you to miss a good fight!”

“Telling me I might be fighting demons isn’t exactly encouraging.”

“What? Shit…”  Scrubbing a hand over her face she grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “Sorry, Bull, I’m not good at this.  I’m used to it being just me.  I just…”  She dropped her head back and stared up at the dimming stars.  Her heart was pounding in her chest, at the same time it felt like her ribs were squeezing her insides.  “I want you there, Bull.  With me.  You make it… easier?  I don’t know if that’s the right word.  I haven’t had to…  There hasn’t been anyone I could depend on in a long time.”  The words felt awkward and heavy on her tongue, and she swore heavily under her breath.  “Spy or not, I think you’re a good man and you remind me of what I’ve accomplished.  I…”

The realization came with a terrifying abruptness, striking her in the gut and robbing her of her voice. She _trusted_ him.  She no longer expected him to turn on her, to give away her secrets or hurt her.  At the same time, her paranoia roared.  He was a _spy_ , for the _Qunari_ , a people that a Free Marcher had every right to be scared and distrustful of.  She shouldn’t even entertain the _idea_ of trusting him, let alone actually _do_ it!  But it was there, all the same, and it terrified her.

 _‘Should I tell him? You tell people when you trust them, right?’_   Her head was spinning, the march on the Breach totally forgotten.  It was hard to drown out the part of her screaming, _‘stupid! Stupid!  STUPID!!’_

“I’ll be there, Boss,” Bull said, clapping a hand on her shoulder and startling her out of the deepening thoughts. She looked up, and he was smiling at her.  There went the fluttering again.  “If anything, it’ll certainly be a show worth seeing.”  She knew he was also coming because the Ben-hassrath would want a full report, but couldn’t find it in herself to be upset about it.  She had her job, and Bull had his.  It didn’t mean that they couldn’t be friends.  When she smiled at him, her crinkled eyes sparkled with genuine gratitude.

 

000

 

Despite the fact that the fires had died and the air no longer stunk of burned flesh, the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes still made Morgan’s skin crawl. The Mark had been buzzing and pulsing since they left Haven, the hundred or so mages accompanying them adding to the strength of it.  She felt like there was a hot coal pressed across her palm, and more than once it hurt enough to make her eyes water.  The bones in her fingers and the back of her hand ached the way they did after she spent hours with yarn and crochet hook, something she wasn’t yet willing to admit might be early onset arthritis.

They had gone on horseback most of the way, taking a path different from the mountain one Morgan, Varric, Solas, and Cassandra had taken the first time. The Mark seemed to remember, the pulses settling into a rhythm that mirrored the shifts of light in the sky.  Being able to predict when the pain would spike gave her an odd, grounding sort of stability.  She bit the inside of her cheek once, but remembered that Bull walked beside her, and forced herself to be still.  He still saw that she had paled under her freckles, and the sweat on her upper lip that she quickly wiped away.  Through it all, her face remained a mask, never giving away a hint of what had to be a horrible tangle of emotions going on under the surface.

She had it in her to be a real leader, despite her weaknesses. Her valuing each and every person could actually be used to further her cause.  She wouldn’t even have to try, either.  All she had to do was show that she valued every solder, every baker, healer, and carpenter.  If they could see how hard she fought for them, they would give their lives for her.  That kind of devotion would unsettle her, but was more valuable than gold. 

Bull could see the beginnings of that devotion starting to take root in the mages. Most of those chosen were young and able-bodied.  Of course there were quite a few that were older, and a few headstrong teenagers that had shown enough skill.  Morgan had made it a point to try and get to know as many as she could, to listen to them.  Bull had heard the way they talked about her; disbelief at first, knowing from experience that any kindness shown to them couldn’t last.  But as Morgan butted heads with former Tempalrs and nay-saying nobles, refusing to give an inch no matter how she was threatened or insulted, that disbelief began to change.

She fought tooth and nail for them, and despite how it aggravated her anxiety, she would talk with groups of them, talking about what it was like to fight with mage allies. She even put herself in harm’s way—Bull thought Cullen was going to faint when that happened—to teach them how to fire at an enemy around a moving target.  But she didn’t let them have free reign.  She gave them rules, and expected them to be followed.  Bull could tell she wanted to let the children run about as they pleased, but she cared too much for their safety to let them go about unheeded. 

Then there was the fact that she taken an uppity former Templar to the training ring and royally trounced him after he made comments about ‘other uses’ for Tranquil. After that, the man had disappeared, whether by Josephine’s political sway, or by the Nightingale’s darker means, none could be sure.  Bull had liked to think that the human male was so ashamed of being beaten by a female dwarf that he’d fled in shame.

The Ben-hassrath were not pleased with the addition of the Mage Rebellion, and Bull was fairly certain that Morgan knew that. He was also fairly certain that she knew that the Qun did to mages.  It was a subject neither of them talked about.  Nearly all of his reports went out without any changes, even the ones he’d penned in Qunlat, just to see what Leliana would do.  He suspected Morgan’s friend, Asala, had been employed as a translator for the more difficult bits.  Through some of his own informants, Bull heard that the Qun wanted to send Avaraads to oversee the _bas sarebaas_ , but he had killed that idea quickly.  That would have been an excellent way to start trouble with Morgan.  He wouldn’t put it past her to punch a male Avaraad in the balls to bring him low enough to break is nose.

When they reached the temple, the mages filed in first to take their positions. There was lots of muttering about the Veil that Bull didn’t pay attention to.  He took his place at Morgan’s right, Cassandra standing to her left, hand resting on her sword hilt.  Between them, Morgan could feel her back protesting her sudden improvement in posture.  The building pain of the Mark had torn her nerves to shreds, and she was contemplating running in and just starting herself.  Above, the Breach crackled and rumbled, souring her already dark mood by imitating the thunderstorms she usually greatly enjoyed.

“I swear I am drinking all of Flissa’s wine when this is over,” she muttered sourly.

“I may join you,” Cassandra said with her usual grumble. Both Bull and Morgan blinked at the Seeker in surprise, and her cheeks went a bit pink.  “What?  I cannot enjoy alcohol?  I am not a Chantry Mother.”

“Yeah, you’re way too violent,” Morgan said, feeling a smile curling her lips.

“That cannot be all you think of me, Morgan.”

The smile faded, then came back as something softer. “No, not at all.  I think you’re a beautiful woman who is a sight to see on the battle field; a force of nature.  That beauty and passion would be sorely wasted in the Chantry.” 

The pink turned to a full red flush, and she sputtered. “You’re teasing me again.”

“It’s the Maker’s honest truth,” Morgan said primly.

Cassandra made a disgusted nose. “You’re worse than Varric!”

“But twice as pretty,” Morgan insisted, a slightly wicked gleam showing in her eyes.

“Hey, that chest hair is pretty spectacular,” Bull interjected, both women staring at him before Morgan dissolved into slightly hysteric giggles.

Cassandra covered her own laugh with a clearing of her throat. “He certainly seems to think so.”

“Mistress Cadash, the mages are in positon!”

The call wiped the grin from Morgan’s face as swiftly as a blow to the jaw. There was the barest moment of hesitation before she forced her feet into motion, following the scout with the two warriors at her flank.  The walk down to the foot of the Breach felt like someone else was making it, and Morgan was just watching from their eyes.  All her emotions drained away, too intense and muddled for her to be able to deal with.  She fell into a sort of calm numbness, and she let it carry her down, led by the increasing pain in her hand.

By the time she stood before the ranks of mages, staring up at the Breach, she felt as if her hand were buried in a running coal forge. But the part of her able to cry out in pain was pressed away; she had things she needed to do.  The green-black stones at the center shifted and undulated in a manner no physical object should ever had, and she shivered.  She heard Solas speaking to the mages, and grasped the general meaning of his words.  She felt the power then, washing through her and gathering in her hand.  For a brief moment, the pain faded, replaced by the bright buzz of pure power.  Then the Mark was reacting to the Breach, ready to tear it open or slam it closed.  All Morgan had to do was decide, and lift her hand.

Then Bull touched her shoulder, just a brush of his fingers, but it felt like he tore away the fog of pain and power that had been clouding her. When she looked up at him, he saw that power crackling in her eyes as the Mark pulsed and flared.  She stared his face, eyes tracing the lines and scars that had become so familiar.  She knew how they stretched when he smiled, and how they twisted with his roaring battle cry.  He was beautiful, and he believed in her.  Morgan smiled, and stepped away.

The pain was blinding.  She felt the Breach devouring the power she held, and she squeezed her fingers, as if closing around a throat.  She hated the Breach for all that it had done to her, for all that she had had to do in her quest to close it, for all that had been done _to_ her.  Eyes streaming tears, she screamed, letting go of the power she felt still flowing into her, focusing all her energy into one thought.

_‘Close.’_

The explosion knocked her back, Bull doing down as his bad knee buckled. But it ended quickly, and he dug into the ground to surge back to his feet.  Looking through the clouds of dust, he could see Cassandra struggling to right herself.  And there, a few yards away, in a small, crumpled heap, was Morgan.  His ankle wobbled briefly as Bull took the first step towards her, but steadied as she pushed up into a sitting position.

Bull reached her first, standing by as she pushed back to her feet like a colt taking its first shaky steps. Her head snapped up, eyes squinting through the dust.  Bull put a hand on her shoulder, and she touched it with her own, both of them staring up at the _grey_ sky.  The clouds still twisted grotesquely, but the Beach was _closed_.

“I did it,” she whispered, fingers latching onto Bull’s and squeezing. The Mark was now a gentle hum, the pain gone and forgotten.  When she finally looked down, she turned a beaming smile on Bull, the most joy he had seen on her face in months.  “We did it!” she crowed.  With a leap, she grabbed Bull’s harness and then one of his horns, yanking him down to press her mouth over his.  It was a hard, unyielding kiss, and Bull swept her up, one arm around her middle and his other hand cupping the back of her head.

When she broke away, breathless and flushed, Bull let out a spectacular roar, hoisting her onto his shoulder as cheers rose from the soldiers and mages. Morgan heard her name, her titles, and pure shouts of joy, all of them filling the air with cacophony of sound.  She couldn’t stop smiling, and held her fist aloft with pride.  “We did this!” she called to them, unsure of where the words came from.  “All of you; you made this possible!”

Bull was smiling too, filing the kiss away for later. He cheered with the soldiers, watching her face flush with pride and tears of joy glimmer in her eyes.  Oh, she would be a force to be reckoned with, strong enough to oppose anything.  She was going to need that strength, too.  Like so many good things, the joy was not meant to last.

 

000

 

Things had gone wrong. Again.  The Elder One had made himself known, and he’d brought an _army_.   The first thing Morgan did was order Hinter to get the other animals out.  She knew most of the dogs would listen to him, and had seen him walk among the horses with impunity.  Dennett had cut the horses loose at the first sign of trouble, rathering they risk the wilds than be cut down by the enemy. 

Morgan, Bull, Dorian, and Sera fought their way to the trebuchets, facing the horrors that had once been Templars. She had ordered all the others to help get the animals and civilians out, screaming in frustration when she saw the young mages jumping to fight in Haven’s defense, only to be cut down.  The Templars were her nightmares come to life, full of red lyrium.  She wanted to run, her brain screamed for her to, but she just ran in, cutting at what flesh remained on them, dodging the shots of the red stuff that some seemed to be able to shoot.

They met the Chargers fighting near the empty stables, Krem stepping in to take a downward blow that Morgan hadn’t seen coming. “You’re not good at making friends are you, Cadash?” he yelled, wrenching his hammer from what _used_ to be a Templar’s skull.

“I prefer to think that I’m good at making enemies!” Morgan shouted back. “Get the Chargers to safety!  You can’t get paid if you get killed!”

“We won’t get paid if everything is set on fire!”

The ‘Elder One’ had a dragon. Of fucking course he had a Blighted _dragon_.

Getting to the trebuchets was for nothing. They buried the army for nothing.  Men and women died for nothing.  The dragon had descended and everything went to shit.  They were trapped.  Until Chancellor Rodrick, bloody and dying, clasped Morgan’s hand and told her of the passage out.  The people would survive, but they needed time.  Morgan had seen them, the carpenters and the bakers and the Kennel Master, taking up swords and pitchforks and anything they could to fight the red Templars.  Even the dogs and cats had been fighting for their home before Hinter got most of them away. 

Morgan would give them time.

She was halfway down the Chantry steps before Sera yanked her around and slapped her. “Who says you get to run off alone?!” she snapped, glaring. 

“I’m not getting you killed!” Morgan shouted back, staring at the elf, Dorian, and Bull. “This Elder One wants _me_!  If everyone can get out then he can _have_ me!”

Sera hit her again, with a closed fist this time, and Morgan tasted blood in her mouth. “No!  That’s not okay!  You’re the frigging Herald of Andraste, yeah?  You don’t get to go dying!”

“I closed the Breach! You don’t need me anymore!  My life doesn’t matter!  I don’t want—!”

“It’s not about what _you_ want anymore, Morgan,” Dorian said over the elf’s growl of frustration. 

“And Boss? If you say you don’t matter again, _I’ll_ be the one throwing punches.” 

“The point is for her _not_ to die, numb-nuts,” Sera muttered.

It was Morgan’s turn to snarl her frustration to the heavens. “Fine!  But when I say it’s time to get out, you _get out_.”

“Psh, I’m not staying around to get buried, yeah? Too many pretty girls left to snog!”  Sera dipped an arrow in poison and gave Morgan a wicked grin.

“Let’s crack some skulls, Boss.” He was smiling again, and her heart fluttered.

_‘Fuck.’_

To their credit, they listened when she told them to run, when the dragon turned in the air and flew straight for them. Morgan sent a prayer to Andraste as their retreating backs vanished behind a wall of red fire, and a nightmare descended on her from the sky.

 

000

 

Bull had to put Hinter on a lead to keep him from running back for Morgan. The dog knew something was wrong the moment he saw the qunari without his master, and only Bull had been able to restrain him without fear of injury.  He hadn’t been this angry at himself in a long time.  He _shouldn’t_ be angry.  She had made the logical choice, sacrificing herself for the good of others.  It was a very Qunari thing to do, and Bull should be at peace with it.

He wasn’t.

He wanted to run back just as much as the dog did. He wanted to run back and shout at Morgan for thinking that the Inquisition would survive without her.  She was his friend, he realized. _Really_ his friend, like Krem and the others.  He didn’t want to see any of them die, and the idea of Morgan being gone— _really_ gone—was like a knife in his back.  He was supposed to be her body guard.  He was supposed to _protect_ her.  And he’d run.  He’d done as she’d told him and left her to die.

 

000

 

Waking up in pain was becoming old and tiresome. But this pain was different.  It wasn’t hard to breathe because she was scared.  Each breath burned and ached because at least two of her ribs were broken.  Her left wrist was a glowing knot of pain, the memory of long, black, claw-like fingers squeezing her tight making her shiver.  Her shoulder on the same side was just as painful, and there was something grinding.  Her left arm was useless, and she found herself wondering if she’d ever be able to hold a bow properly again.  But her legs worked for all that agony was coiled tight around her bad hip like hot wire.  They carried her through caves that looked like they could have been the tunnels under the Chantry, and they brought her out into the snow.

Morgan had always hated the snow.

It was pretty to look at, and was nice when one was inside with something hot to drink. Otherwise, it was horrid and good only for slowing lyrium shipments. The cold wind, on the other hand, proved quite adept at numbing her extremities, so the pain of her shattered forearm didn’t bother her quite as much.  Cassandra and Cullen had impressed upon her the dangers of the cold; one should never fall asleep when stranded in it, get anything wet, and that when true numbness settled into her limbs was when she was really in trouble.

But she had hit her head again, she was sure. There was a whine in her left ear that wouldn’t stop, and her hair tugged and pulled as she moved, snagged on something that had once been sticky but had since dried to crust.  She couldn’t keep her balance either, the knee high snow rising and falling in drifts that tried to pull her down.  The stones beneath the earth were silent when she searched, hoping for a deep vein of lyrium to guide her.  There was nothing.  She cried once, scared for herself and Hinter and wishing selfishly that he was with her.  A moment later, she hated herself for wishing that.

Many times she stumbled, and then fell over a fallen tree buried by the snow. It had been very large, above her knee, and she screamed when she hit the ground.  Had her scream always been than raspy and pitiful?  But she was out of the wind, and her body sagged.  Without the wind, she almost felt warm.

_“No no no no!’_

Morgan didn’t so much surge back to her feet as she just sort of wobbled upwards. She began counting her steps, one after the other, and trying to even out her breath.  Each one came as wheeze, her lips dry and cracked, painful and icy from the cold.  When she realized she could no longer feel her feet or fingers she whimpered; she needed them to fight, to hold her weapons.  They weren’t allowed to fall off. 

 _‘The Breach is closed. They don’t need you.  You tried your best, right?  It’s okay to lay down.’_  

The thought was so tempting that she started crying in earnest, the tears turning to ice on her cheeks. It was getting harder to feel her lips or the end of her nose.  The snow was so deep, and she knew that if she dug a small hollow in it she would be warm and comfortable until the end.  But she didn’t _want_ an end, not yet.  She had spent half her time on earth just wanting to give up on life, and now that it seemed to be her only option, she was fighting it with all her strength.  She had to laugh at that, the sound snatched away by the biting, howling wind.  She had been a very contrary child; it didn’t seem like much had changed.

Thinking of her parents brought tears again. She prayed that Leliana would keep her promise and take care of Rebka Cadash, even if Morgan was no longer there.  The poor woman just wanted to live with her cat and paint in peace.  Morgan regretted not visiting more, not sending more letters.  And her father…  He had been a terrible father but had still been trying to do right by Morgan the whole time.  She thought she’d left all excuses for him behind, but they came anyway, bringing memories with them.  She remembered her first puppy, a runty thing that Sars had found abandoned.  The dog had been mean to anyone not family, and had chased anything that wasn’t another dog or person.  But it had loved Morgan, Sars, and Rebka.

Corypheus. The Elder One.  It was him.  More than ever, Morgan had wanted to believe that the Mark was from Andraste, a divine gift for her chosen.  No matter how she tried to deny or skirt around it, she had _wanted_ to be chosen, just like the Maker had chosen Andraste.  She had never been special, never been a part of something bigger than herself.  Now this Elder One claimed that _he_ was the one that had made the Mark, and that Morgan had stolen it by happenstance.

She screamed into the wind, hating him almost as much as she hated herself for daring to think that she might actually be special. She’d spent her life being told—and eventually believing—that she would never be enough for anyone.  Morgan had just wanted to believe that she was enough.  Strong enough, smart enough, to be chosen.  Even now, she wanted to say that Corypheus was a liar, trying to make her doubt herself. 

She didn’t realized she’d fallen again until her tongue tasted the snow. Her body was so numb that she hadn’t felt the impact, but her arms wouldn’t listen when she tried to get them under her to get back up, and her brain couldn’t find where her legs were.  She wondered if the Templars were back, and had cut them off.  Her eyes saw her hands sink into the snow in front of her, but she couldn’t feel it.  There was a strange sensation in her left wrist, the mark flickering weakly.  Hadn’t her wrist been hurt?  She couldn’t remember.  Was she managing to move?  She couldn’t tell.

 _‘I’m not cold anymore,’_ she realized.

 

000

 

Hinter had worked a miracle. The fleeing Inquisition found nearly all their horses and animals corralled into a cluster of trees. The gurns were there too, though their pasture had been nearby anyways.  It made carrying what supplies they had managed to grab easier, and stretcher skids were fashioned for the old and injured.  Krem had found the Little Chief—clumps of snow caked to her long fur—huddled with the sheep, claws holding her tight to a big ram’s back.  Some time later hey had made a camp against a sloping rock face, the most grievously injured taken into a cave to be tended to by Solas and Sh’vara.  Asala had refused to stay behind and joined the party in a desperate search for Morgan.

“If she’s dead, I’ll learn necromancy and kill her again,” the blind mage growled as she strode through the snow, leaving steaming puddles of it in her wake.

“She’s been quite difficult to kill up till now,” Dorian offered, but Bull could tell the Altus didn’t have much hope.

Hinter stuck close to Bull, his snout pink from being repeatedly thrust into the snow. His snuffling was interspersed between anxious whining, and every now and then, a deep, mournful howl.  Bull had found his vest in the Charger’s things, and had one of Morgan’s cloaks tucked into his belt.  He could feel the wind tugging at it with every step.  She wasn’t _allowed_ to be dead.  There was still a hell of a lot more for her to do.  His higher ups didn’t think the Inquisition would last if the Herald died, and he found himself agreeing.  Sure, mages would eventually find a way to close Rifts, but in the meantime, people would suffer.  The world _needed_ Morgan.

Bull _needed_ …

He wanted his friend back. He wanted the dwarf that threw punches in fights she had no stake in, just because she knew that someone innocent had been wronged.  He wanted the woman that made bawdy jokes one minute, then blushed at a compliment the next.  He wanted the woman that seemed to dance through battle, leaving streamers of blood in her wake, the woman that would put her life on the line to save a stray dog.  He wanted…

 _‘Well, shit.’_ It wasn’t like it was a surprise, and he forced himself to keep walking.  It wasn’t like she hadn’t shown an interest either.  But she was so wrapped up in her masks that Bull wasn’t sure she’d meant it, or even known she was showing it.  He shook his head and snorted plumes of steam into the air.  Not wasn’t the time for any of that.  Later.  After they found her.  After they found her _alive_. _‘Please.’_

 

000

 

It was, of course, Hinter that found her. While Qunari had a much better sense of smell than humans, dogs had them beat by miles.  He let out a strangled sort of bark and started leaping forward, fighting the snow to get where he was going.  Bull dove after him, following the frantic tracks.  Hinter thrust his head under a small dip in the snow, snuffling madly.  Almost instantly, he began to whine and dig, and Bull fell to his knees beside the dog, shouting over his shoulder as he helped to clear the snow.

Crusted in snow and blood, Morgan looked even smaller than he remembered, Hinter’s worried cries fading into the background as Bull lifted her gently into his arms. His chest tightened viciously as his fingers touched her skin.  There was no warmth to her, and her chest looked so still.  In gathering her to him, he gripped her left forearm, the mark barely a glimmer.  In the same moment that he felt the grinding creak of broken bones, Morgan sucked in a breath, arm flinching weakly in Bull’s hand.  Hinter’s whining became frantic, his nose pressed to the side of her face, washing her thoroughly.  She made another tiny sound, and Bull put his fingers to her neck, searching for her pulse.  It was weak, and she made not further reaction, but she was alive.

_‘Alive.’_

Asala was the first to reach Bull, and cast a circle of dry heat beneath them the moment she felt Morgan in his arms. Bull had to force down the anxious surge at the magic under his feet, the snow steaming as it was burned away. The blind Vashoth bit her lip, the wind whipping her braids.  “Go as fast as you can, I’ll follow with the heat.”

Varric came up, the snow just shy of his waist. “Alive?” he panted.  Cassandra was on his heels, guided by the orb of mage light that Asala put above them to light the way.  Hinter circled, still whining.

“Barely.” Bull pulled her cloak from his belt and wrapped her as gently as he was able, opening his vest to press her to his chest.  Even with the magical heat, being pressed to the furnace of his chest would help.  Hinter paced around Bull in circles, whining piteously.  Bull _knew_ that Morgan wasn’t delicate, but she felt so small and fragile in his arms.  It made him angry, that someone he knew to be so full of strength could be brought so low. 

“Dwarves are tough, she’ll be okay,” Varric said, working hard to keep up as Bull began to move. His voice was tight, so full of bluster that Bull knew that the writer was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“I should have stayed,” Bull muttered. He hadn’t meant for the others to hear, but his brain was being pulled in so many directions that it slipped out anyway.

“We don’t have enough horses to carry you, tiny,” Varric grunted.

“Psh, I could carry him,” Asala muttered, glad for something else to talk about.

“I bet you fifty sovereigns that you couldn’t carry his dead weight for two hundred paces.”

“Fifty sovereigns and a bottle of Rivaini rum,” the Vashoth shot back.

Bull was torn between snapping at them, and glad that they were speaking of something other than the woman on death’s door in his arms. Every few steps, he’d swear she was moving, but it nearly always turned out to be the jostling of his swift, steady pace.  When a path was suddenly blown into the snow before them, Bull knew that they’d found Dorian again.  He was a fine and competent mage, but still a bit of a show off.  But Bull wasn’t going to complain that he wasn’t dragging his aching knee and ankle through the snow and slush any more. 

 

000

 

Cullen and Cassandra met them on the steep path leading down to the camp, the golden light of the fires making everyone more aware of the cold settling into their limbs. “Blessed Andraste, is she alive?”  The Seeker had gone pale under her scars, and Cullen’s face had gone pink with cold.

Cullen saw Asala sway, something unintelligible muttered under her breath. When she toppled, he planted himself and caught her heavier frame with a grunt.  “What on earth have you been doing?” he growled. 

Dorian came up panting behind them. “She’s been keeping them warm the whole way back.  She’s got nothing left.” 

“Fuck you, ‘Vint,” Asala slurred, eyelids heavy. “I’m fine.  I just…”  She swayed again, staggering.  Cullen looked ready to keel over under her weight, but set his jaw and pulled her arm over his shoulder. 

“You’ll lay down with the others,” he said. “We don’t have lyrium to spare, but there’s plenty of elfroot where we’ve made camp.”

“I don’t listen to Templars!” Asala snarled, still trying to fight her way free.

Bull’s face twisted, and one hand lashed out and grabbed what remained of Asala’s left horn, forcing her to look at him. “Morgan needs you to rest.  She’ll need help, and you’re of no use to her if you faint.  Understand?”  He knew that she couldn’t _see_ him exactly, but the sightless, clouded eyes still lingered in the general area of his face.  She grumbled and affirmative and allowed Cullen to lead her away.

Dorian took up where the other mage had left off, keeping heat around them as they entered the camp. Cassandra was shouting instructions the moment they were within earshot, calling out for hot drinks, soup, and blankets.  In the back of his head, Bull knew that Morgan would hate how tasks were dropped just to tend to her.  At some point during the chaos, Sh’vara appeared, their apron splattered and smeared with blood, and their dark face drawn and tired.

After one look at the healer, Bull shook his head. “No.  You’re almost as bad off as Asala.”

Never once breaking eye contact, Sh’vara pulled a glowing blue vial from their robe—lyrium—and drank it down in a single gulp. Their eyes glowed blue briefly before they faded back to golden-brown.  “Follow me,” they ordered Bull.  Then, turning to Dorian, “find a tub.  After we stabilize her she’ll need to bathe.  Not right away though, warming her too fast will stop her heart.”

They gave more instructions to the few attendants they had, each of them equally splattered with blood. Bull did as he was told, laying Morgan gently on a cot in a rune-warmed tent, giving a list of the injuries he had noticed as the healers went about cutting her out of her armor.  Hinter sat at the foot of her cot, still, silent, and watchful.  Bull’s hands opened and closed at his sides, frustration clenching his jaw.  He was useless now.  Someone had already gathered innumerable blankets, and there was no need to build a fire.  There was nothing more that he could do for Morgan.  More healers arrived, and he was told, in no uncertain terms, that he was no longer wanted.

 

000

 

Before anything else, Morgan smelled tea, black and bitter. Then she felt the pain, and squeezed her eyes shut against the dim light beyond them.  She couldn’t feel her chest beyond the pain, knowing only that she was prone.  At first, she thought it was the mark causing the sharp, biting agony in her left arm.  Then she remembered Corypheus, and his long, sharp fingers curling around her wrist, hauling her up until something in her shoulder popped and tore, tightening on her wrist until…

She cried out, the sound tiny and ragged, but more than enough to renew the pain throughout her body, and alert the mage sitting at her bedside. There was a clatter of china and then a large, warm hand was pressed to her brow, keeping her anchored to whatever she lay on.  “Easy, now!” said Dorian’s voice.  “You don’t want to ruin the healer’s good work by hurting yourself again do you?”

Morgan’s eyes opened a fraction, but the only light was from a brazier not far off, so the assault on her pupils was minimal. She heard snuffling and whining, and a gentle nudge through what had to be at least five layers of blankets.  “Hinter?” she rasped, eyes watering as the pain pulsed in a way that could only be described as ‘loud’.

“Yes, he’s here,” Dorian assured her. “He hasn’t left your side since you returned.”

“So ‘m no’ dead,” she mumbled, voiced cracking. Her tongue felt like swollen sandpaper.

“I should say not, with the amount of pain you seem to be in.” A hand slipped under her head, tilting it up until she felt the cool rim of a ceramic cup against her lips.  The tea she had smelled upon waking tasted as bitter as expected, but to Morgan’s dry mouth and throat, it felt like heaven.  She would have drunk the whole thing if Dorian hadn’t pulled it back and returned her head to what felt like a folded up bedroll.  Hinter’s nose was cool against her cheek, and she wished madly that he wasn’t on her left side so that she could pet him. 

“Good boy,” she whispered, receiving a tiny lick in reply. “Bull,” she croaked, “Sera?”

“They’re fine. There were…”  He trailed off, fumbling for words, and Morgan could tell he was trying to gentle some harsh news.  “Chancellor Rodrick is gone.  He died not long after you were brought back.  But everyone you saved before you…  Well, they made it.  One old horse died, but she was trying to pull the cart until the end.”

“Soldiers,” Morgan whispered, not trusting her voice. “How many were lost?”

“You’re not to bother with that just now,” Dorian said brusquely. “You very nearly died.”

“Didn’t,” was all Morgan offered.

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” Dorian sounded tired, but there was still spark in his voice.  “Tell me, isn’t this the _second_ time a mountain has been dropped on your head?”

Morgan thought. While she could still remember next to nothing about the explosion at the Conclave, she supposed that he was right.  “Been in a Deep Roads cave-in once,” she said.  “Does that count as three?”  She couldn’t help the half smile when Dorian rolled his eyes and threw up his hands.

“Typical Marcher,” he huffed. “Impossible.”

“Typical dwarf, you mean.” Her voice cracked again, and Dorian patiently repeated the act of letting her sip at the bitter tea.  “Bull’s really okay?”  Talking was becoming painful, and she was starting to wonder if the healer had needed to patch a hole in her lung, rather than just mending a few ribs.  Breathing had never been quite so painful.

As he laid her back, something in Dorian’s face softened. “Yes, the giant ass is just fine.  I had to threaten him with magic before he’d go and get something to eat.  Since he’s even more stubborn than you, I thought it would be impossible to get him to actually rest.  Food was easier.”  Morgan smiled weakly.  Dorian hesitated a moment.  “Do you want me to get him?”

She wanted to hug him, but settled for a subtle nod. After adjusting invisible faults in her blankets, Dorian rose from his seat and walked away.  Sighing heavily, and consequently wincing, she tried to take better stock of herself.  Despite the blaze of pain that was her left forearm, left shoulder, and ribs, most of the rest was a dull throbbing.  She seemed to have just as many toes as she’d ever had when she wiggled them, though they felt raw.  She counted the fingers on her right hand twice, and then once more.  All five were there.  The left was harder.  When she tried to move, little shocks of followed each motion, but she was able to count five fingers there as well.  After that, she did her best to look around.

She appeared to be laying in a tent not unlike the ones used out in the field, though it was a bit bigger, and a brazier burned in the center, with a flap open in the ceiling to let out the smoke. Furs had been laid on the floor, and in an absurdity that made her snort with laugher, she saw her tub, the rune glowing and the water in it steaming. Fighting the laughter was almost as painful as the act itself, and she couldn’t seem to stop.  Who decided that a _bathtub_ was what you needed to save when an archdemon was setting everything on fire?  Probably the same person that rushed to save the fine china, if the tea-set near Dorian’s seat was any indication.

Before she could look around anymore, her vision was obscured by a black nose and white muzzle, Hinter snuffling at her from less than an inch away. She could hear his tail sweeping the floor as it wagged, and he whined softly.  “I’m sorry I can’t pet you, friend,” she murmured, kissing the wet nose weakly.  The single sloppy lick she got in return said everything.  “You’re such a good boy,” she whispered, leaning her head as close as she could.  “Such a good, good boy.”

There was a sudden spike in volume from the world outside, and Morgan recognized Cassandra’s voice. She was shouting, and she wasn’t alone.  There was an argument happening, but she couldn’t parse the words.  Under that was the murmur of a subdued crowd.  Her stomach clenched at the thought of all those people, huddling in some tiny camp Maker-knows-where in the Frostback-fucking-Mountains.

The volume rose again as the tent flap was pushed back and the familiar bulk of the Iron Bull stepped in. Hinter looked way for long enough to wag his tail and ‘buff’ softly, before he crawled under the cot and out of sight.  Morgan had to blink a few times for Bull’s face to come into focus.  His stubble was darker than usual, and there were shadows under his good eye.  But he looked as whole as he’d been when she met him.  He was still missing a few pieces, but nothing new.

“How’s it going, Boss?” Such familiar, comforting words.

Morgan tried to smile, but the expression was weak and watery. The chair creaked its protest as Bull sat down, and she could tell that he was watching her face intently.  “How long have they been fighting?” she finally managed, too many feelings bubbling up for her to address any of them.  She opted instead for bringing herself up to speed on the current situation.

“On and off since we made camp,” Bull said quietly. She looked a good deal better than before—she wasn’t blue, for one thing—but she still looked so fragile. 

“How many did we lose?” Again, her voice fell back to a whisper; the lump was in her throat again.

Bull shook his head. “Dorian said you’d ask again,” he muttered.

“Oh, he’s ‘Dorian’ now?” she managed. “Thought he was just ‘The ‘Vint’?”

The qunari waved a dismissive hand.   “Ah, I’m tired; I dunno what I’m saying.”

“He’s a good man, Bull.”

“So you keep telling me, Boss.” When she smiled at him, he couldn’t help but smile back, even if there were dark circles under her eyes and her usually plump face looked gaunt and drawn. 

“I’m going to take you two everywhere together,” she murmured, wishing she could shake her head. It was easier to joke with Bull than to think about all those that had died for the Inquisition, for _her_.

“Hush now. You’re delirious with pain and don’t know what you’re saying,” he soothed, as if speaking to a raving invalid.

As much as she wanted to keep it up, her voice was turning to a rasp, so she kept it simple. “How bad was I hurt?  I remember my left arm, but…”

“First, before I answer any of that, I’m going to tell you that you’re going to be fine. It’ll take a while, but you’ll be stabbing and shooting again before you know it, alright?” When she gave a close approximation of a nod, Bull continued.  “Your left shoulder was dislocated, and a few ligaments were torn.  Left forearm was pretty much crushed, but Sh’vara put you back together nicely.  You’ll be stabbing demons again in no time.

“Frostbite on your toes, but they don’t think you’ll lose any. Few cracked ribs, two fully broken.”  She heard the concern in his voice, unmasked, and realized that it was difficult for him to talk about her so close to death.  Did he count her a friend as she did him?  Again, too many emotions; stick to the facts.  Bull was still talking.  “Blisters all over your hands and feet, and, well…” He shrugged and gave a weak smile.  “You’re missing your left earlobe now.  Rest is just bad bruising and scrapes.”

Morgan blinked. “That’s it?  Feel like I got trampled by the whole of the Antaam,” she muttered, startling a short, barking laugh out of the qunari.

“So even an archdemon can’t kill your sense of humor, huh?”

Some of Morgan’s smile slipped. “Is that really what it was, Bull?” 

“Blackwall seems to think so,” Bull said with a shrug.

“I can’t think about what that means right now,” Morgan said quickly. She was able to turn to head to the side without much pain, and they fell on the tub again.  “Who brought that, Bull?”

He found himself wanted to reach out, to offer her some sort of comfort. But despite being healed, he knew her left arm would need to rest in a sling for several days, if not more.  There was little danger of a punctured lung, so her ribs had been to heal on their own.  Holding her hand was out of the question.  When he followed her eyes, he snorted.  “No idea.  But Sh’vara wanted you in that as soon as you woke up.  They told me to find them so that they could help you with—”

“No,” Morgan cut in. “Knowing them, they’ve run themselves ragged healing others.”  Color rose to her pale cheeks, and her chest fluttered.  “You’ll help me in, stay with me, and then help me get dressed.”  She took another breath.  “After that, I’m going out there.”  She looked pointedly at the tent flap and the fluctuating argument beyond.  She could hear Cullen’s voice now, and two others that she guessed were Josephine and Leliana.

Bull instantly wondered if he’d taken a blow to the head, or was more worn out than he realized, because he couldn’t have heard Morgan correctly. “What?” he said flatly, staring.

Morgan was able to work her right arm out from under the blankets, and grabbed a weak fistful of them. “I’m getting up, Bull,” she said sternly, as much to convince him of her determination as herself.

He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “No you’re fucking not,” he said.  “You nearly _died_.  You’re in no shape for anything.”

“I _didn’t_ die,” Morgan snapped.  “Magical healing was wasted on me when they could have just mended my wrist, and let the rest heal on their own.  How many dying or wounded could have been saved with that?!”  The shout cracked her voice, and her ribs were burning as she braced her right elbow and pushed up.  “If you won’t get me up, I’ll do it myself!”  Still braced on her elbow, she rotated her body to the right, keeping her legs straight and getting her arm under her.  Everything hurt, the pain making her head spin and black start to eat at the edges of her vision.

“Shiiit.” The word drew out as Bull leaned in, slipping an arm carefully under Morgan’s ribs, easily supporting her weight.  “C’mon, you tiny, stubborn ass,” he muttered, though there was no edge to his voice, just quiet resignation.  “Roll back to me.”  After a cautious glance out of the corner of her eye, Morgan did as she was asked, letting her back roll back over Bull’s forearm.  She saw the tendons stand out in his shoulder, and felt his fingers splayed out over her ribs.  “Going to lift you, alright?  Gonna go quick, so try not to pass out.”

Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, Morgan nodded. Bull met her eyes, and she offered another weak smile.  But the light was back in her eyes, the fire that he knew so well.  For as weak and tired and sad as she was, she always found some way to push forward, to keep going.  Strength like that was rare.  He smiled back, and lifted.  Her eyes widened and then snapped shut, the tendons in her neck standing out as she forced down the scream.  Black blurred the edges of her vision again, and the inside of the tent looked like it was under water.  Her ribs burned as she sucked in breath after breath, grabbing the hand that Bull laid gently across her lap.

He squeezed her hand back gently. “Okay, legs next?”  Morgan did not trust herself to speak, so she just nodded.  Sliding his hand from hers, he pulled back the layers of blankets, tossing them off her legs.  Arm still at her back, he slid the other under her bent knees.  The loose shift she’d been dressed in slid down her thighs, revealing a lacy-looking tattoo obscured by dark purple and red bruising blooming around her left thigh.

The bruises were scattered over the rest of her legs as well, her right knee slightly swollen, and her blistered feet wrapped in bandages. After meeting her eyes again, he rotated her in one swift motion, bringing her feet to the floor.  This time she couldn’t stop the scream, but kept her jaw clenched tightly, the sound turning to a strangled growl in her throat.  Again, her vision swam, and this time her stomach heaved. 

A large, warm hand cupped her cheek, and muffled words filtered through the blood rushing in her ears. Blinking, she found Bull crouched before her.  It took a moment to recognize the concern on his face.  How long had it been since she had learned to trust someone?  How long had it been since she met someone that just… understood?  And did Bull feel the same?  He had taught her how to fight at his back and in his blind spot, to watch the motion of his shoulders and his feet to see where he would swing his axe.  He’d taught her how to reach around him with her blades, to cut an enemy that thought they only had to deal with one brute of a qunari.

Did that mean he trusted her, too?

“Boss?”

His words yanked her back, and her head snapped up. “Hm?”

The hand left her cheek, and touched her chest. “Do you want to keep this on?”  Looking down, Morgan saw the shift she wore was kept closed by a series of ties down the front, bits of bruised or tattooed skin visible through the gaps.  A medical garment, made to be taken off and put on again with ease.  Bull saw the blush rise to her pale cheeks.  “I can get Sh’vara if you want.”

“No, they’ll just make me go back to bed.” Morgan knew it was foolish to be concerned about nudity at a time like this.  She shook her head to clear it, then lifted her right hand to fumble at the first tie.  “Don’t have any other clothes,” she mumbled.  “Not gonna go out there in wet clothes.  Not that stupid.”

Snorting, Bull shook his head. For a moment, he watched her pluck, one-handed, at the tie.  “I can do that for you.”  It wasn’t a request or a demand; he was simply giving her an option.  He kept his hands lowered, waiting.

Maker, this was _not_ the time for her to remember all the idle fantasies she’d had since she had met Bull on the Storm Coast.  Feeling more warmth in her cheeks, she nodded, letting her hand fall back.  “Thank you,” she mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

He was glad she didn’t look up; she would have seen the smile that curved his lips without thinking, before he could smooth away the expression. He didn’t want her to misunderstand.  She was simply so full of contradictions.  She never showed any shame about sex, trading stories with him when they shared a watch.  But when it came to any details about herself, or direct compliments, she shied away like a blushing virgin.  He had an idea of why that was, but he enjoyed the complexity of her, enjoyed the challenge of a puzzle.

Morgan watched his gray fingers make quick work of the ties, and then slide the garment over her shoulders and down her arms. Despite how gentle he was, her left arm still throbbed as it was shifted, and she finally dared to look down at it.  Though she was able to move her fingers, and the Mark flickered as it always had, her forearm was a solid mas of bruise and swollen tissue that even the best healing wouldn’t have been able to bring down. 

“Fuck.” Tears threatened again, and she forced herself to look up at Bull’s face.  He was already watching her, eyes intent on her expression.  Trying to read his face was impossible, her brain pulled in too many directions for her to focus on minute details.  Dragging her eyes from his face, she nodded at the tub.  “Ready.”  The sound was choked, and Bull bit back another question.  She probably wouldn’t be happy if he kept asking if she was sure. 

Keeping her gaze rigidly ahead, and her left arm folded in her lap, Morgan let Bull lift her in his arms, taking her weight against his chest. She faltered, the feel of his bare skin pressed to hers, his arms circling her…  Heat flickered, weak and small, but alive all the same, tightening her aching chest and working its way down her spine.  The memory of the kiss came surging back, and the flicker of heat became a surging pulse.

 _‘Really? Now?’_   Her body was a traitor.  She had no time for arousal or blushing or whatever the fuck was happening!  But Bull was so warm, the shift of his body as he carried her slowly—doing his utmost not to jostle her—a maddening thing to skin that was only just coming back to normal temperatures, sensitive to any source of heat.  Morgan had known she was attracted to Bull, known that the idea of bedding him was about as far from unpleasant as an idea could be.  There was so much about him that—No.  She balled her left hand into a fist, using the pain to cut away the gathering heat.

It was easy for Bull to separate from the part of himself that would normally take great pleasure in a busty, plump brunette held naked in his arms. But the thoughts lingered on the edges, too much a part of him to be removed completely.  It bothered him, to be appreciating her body when it was clearly _not_ the time to be admiring it.  She had made it clear that she had had difficulty with men in the past, but was still trusting him with such a great state of vulnerability, when she had friends she’d known for years willing to help.  It was humbling, to be trusted like that, especially by a person like Morgan.

While his bad knee protested, he crouched beside the tub. “This is going to hurt your feet _a lot_ ,” he said, nodding to the bandaged limbs.  “Sh’vara cleared most of the blisters on your hands, but they weren’t quite as bad.” 

“Get it over with,” she mumbled.

Despite her determined tone, she still flinched and whimpered when her toes dipped below the surface of the water. She felt the muscles shift in Bull’s chest and arms as he used his strength to lower her slowly, easing her down until the water covered her breasts.  The heat felt searing on her toes, soaking through the bandages to the raw, blistered flesh.  Her right hand came out of the water with a splash, fingers clenching on the edge of the tub.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuuuck!”

“Such _language_ ,” Bull teased gently, his hand still at her back.

“Oh, fuck you!”

“Maybe later, when you’re not so beat up.” The words had tumbled out without him thinking, a natural response.  He saw her eyes widen and scarlet color her face all the way to the tips of her ears, her body going tense under his hand.   “Shit.  Sorry.  Force of habit.”  Inwardly, he cursed himself.  He was a fucking soldier, able to stay alert for days without sleep. He shouldn’t be slipping like that, _especially_ with Morgan.  What she thought _mattered_.  Just because he played the lascivious brute on occasion to suit his purpose, didn’t mean he was allowed to act like one with…  “Sorry,” he said again, the word feeling hollow.

Craning her head, Morgan found Bull avoiding her eyes, this face a stony mask. That told her plenty, no matter how fuzzy her mind was.  Despite the rapid beat of her heart and the heat in her face, she smiled.  Bull was _upset_ that he’d slipped like that, that he’d said something like that to her.  That genuine upset melted her tension, and she lifted her hand from the edge of the tub, reaching for him.  His eye snapped back to her when wet fingers touched his shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Bull,” she said simply, offering a soft, honest smile.

The stony expression ease, and he snorted. “Whatever you say, Boss,” he said, even as he searched for signs she was pushing her discomfort down in lieu of easing her own.  She did that with everyone; why not now, with him?  But her face was open and clear, either too tired for a mask or choosing to forgo one.  Some of his tension eased.  “Can you sit up on your own?” he asked.

As much as she didn’t want to, Morgan brought her left hand up, closing it carefully over the edge of the tub, her right arm drawing back to do the same. Pain lanced up the limb, but there was no wobbling weakness.  At least not yet.  “I think so?”  She felt his eyes on her, watching carefully.

“Alright, wait there.” She heard him stand, and then the clink of his ankle brace as he moved around behind her. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she muttered. Hinter crawled out from the under the cot, wandering over to sit on the other side of the tub.  His expressive face looked gravely concerned, and Morgan couldn’t help but smile.  “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Bull chuckled as he returned. “He’s probably concerned that he’d going to be put in next.”  He’d brought one of the other chairs with him, a towel draped over the back, and a bar of soap and a washcloth on the seat.  Crouching next to it, he draped the washcloth over the edge of the tub, near her right hand.  “Now.”  She looked back at the more serious tone.  “How do you want to do this?”

Morgan blinked owlishly at him, the relaxing heat of the bath muddling her for a moment. Then she saw the soap in his hand.  “Oh.”  Another faint flicker of heat.  The idea of him running his hands over her body, sore as it was, was far more interesting than she wanted it to be.  Her left arm was starting to ache, and she leaned forward towards her bent knees, letting the limb slip back into the water.  “I can’t get everything myself,” she admitted, staring resolutely ahead and _not_ at Bull.  Anything else she might have said stuck in her throat.

Bull must have seen something of it in her face. “Why don’t I start with your back, alright?  I know you won’t be able to get that with your shoulder the way it is.  Once I’m done with that, you tell me what else you want help with.  Sound good?”

A smile quirked one corner of her mouth, and she nodded, hair slipping forward to curtain her face. He’d been like this before, too, the times that she’d been injured and he’d had to partially undress her.  He really was a good man.  As Bull dipped both washcloth and soap into the water, Morgan reached out and put a hand on Hinter’s muzzle where it extended over the tub.  He licked her wrist, huffing out a breath through his nose.  She could feel the grime in his fur, and see the dried blood on his white muzzle.  He’d been fighting, even after she told him to run.  She was filled with a sudden ache of worry, imagining him twisted with the taint of the red lyrium.

Bull’s cloth covered hand touched her back, and she hissed out a breath. There was nowhere not touched by bruises or pain, and he murmured a quiet apology as he sloshed water and soapy cloth up over her shoulders.  Morgan leaned forward until her brow rested on her knees, closing her eyes.  He was slow and careful, letting the cloth’s texture do the work rather than pressing with any force.

Under the bruising, Bull saw another tattoo, and couldn’t help but imagine her sitting in the artist’s chair, swearing up a storm. It was an arrow, beautifully ornate as opposed to functional.  It had to have taken hours, the metal of the arrow’s broad head glimmering in a false light.  The texture of the shaft was of smooth, polished wood, charms of animal teeth, coins, and gems hung about it on fine chains.  The fletching was a brilliant golden red, the notch made of gleaming brass or gold.  It was the most detailed piece he’d seen, and had probably taken weeks of hours long sessions to complete. 

Continuing with slow, circular movements, Bull realized that the work had been done over scars. Putting aside that the artist would have to be especially skilled to work over scar tissue, he looked closer.  Once really looking, it was easy to tell how she’d gotten them, and something cold and hard settled in the pit of his stomach.  He’d seen the fresher version of such wounds plenty of times, as well as all the stages between infliction and healing to scars.  Nearly all had been on slaves in Seheron.

He had to pause for a moment, dunking the cloth into the water and scrubbing the soap against it. Whip scars, years old by the look of them, were striped across her back, pale and shining even in the dim light.  But he said nothing, returning to his task.  It would do no good to bring up what were probably particularly unpleasant memories when she was about to go out and be the center of attention as the Herald of Andraste.  But his anger was there, all the same, strong and sharp and lingering.

He’d hidden the pause well, but Morgan had heard the quick intake of breath through his nose. Considering the part of her most visible to him, it was easy to guess what he was reacting to.  “I’ll tell the story someday,” she murmured.  She didn’t have the strength to relive that part of her life just then.

“Up to you, Boss,” Bull said softly, voice carefully emotionless.

When Bull was finished with her back, Morgan was able to finish, though required some assistance with her right arm. When she was clean and her body suffused with warmth, Bull helped her to her feet, draping a towel around her from behind.  She was able to dry herself without issue while Bull found fresh bandages.  He insisted on carrying her back to the cot, and replacing the wet bandages on her raw, red feet.  There were no shoes or boots, and Morgan shot Bull a withering look when he suggested waiting until a pair could be found.

Redressed, she sat on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe through a fresh wave of pain from her ribs. Bull had insisted on bandaging those too, the fabric wrapped so firmly that she could feel the texture of it with each breath.  Hinter sat close, his body against her leg but not leaning as he usually did.  With her right hand resting on his head, she felt grounded.  When the wave of pain had finally crested and fallen, she looked up at Bull, who stood waiting.  He put the cloak that had been left behind around her shoulders, clasping it loosely.  The dog moved out of the way as the qunari moved to her right side, putting his arm around her waist and easing her slowly onto her feet.

She whimpered, a single, quiet sound, but Bull saw the tendons in her neck and the clenching of her jaw. Her feet felt as if knifes were wedged between her toes, slicing with each tiny motion.  Her jaw creaked and popped with tension as she put one foot forward, shifting her weight to take another step.  The furs on the floor of the tent were mercifully soft, and she knew that the hard, cold ground of the mountains waited outside.  Hinter took the tent flap between his teeth, drawing it back as Bull ducked his head, staying low as he helped Morgan shuffle outside.

The sky was dark, clouds obscuring any light that might have come from the moons or stars. Fires burned in a forest of makeshift and mismatched tents, the mumble of voices a low hum that mingled with the crackling of the flames.  For a brief moment, Morgan’s stomach dropped, and she wanted to turn and run back inside.  But Bull flexed his hand on her waist, a gentle squeeze of reassurance, and she took another step forward. 

Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana were staged around a table, a dagger stabbed into what looked like it had been a map. All of them looked so haggard, with dark circles under their eyes.  Both Cullen and Cassandra’s armor was spattered with dried blood from the fight, and Morgan was fairly certain she could see a dagger at Josephine’s waist.  A bow and quiver of arrows leaned against a bench a few feet from Leliana.  Everyone had fought, and was till ready to fight.  They were quiet now, but unwilling to walk away and rest.  Josephine leaned forward and braced her palms on the wood of the table, her head hanging between tense shoulders.

Swallowing hard, Morgan licked her lips, and realized she had no idea what to say. Her head turned, looking at the camp spread out around her.  People huddled around fires, pressed close together.  There was no laughter, no drinking, all traces of merriment and celebration burned to ashes.  Her chest tightened, a new pain settling there.  These were _her_ people.  So many of them had put all their hopes in the Herald of Andraste, and now they were stranded.

It was Leliana that noticed her first. “Morgan…”  The usually stoic spymaster was obviously surprised, and at a loss for words. 

The relief on Cullen’s face was clear, and Josephine looked ready to cry. But it was Mother Giselle that stepped forward.  Her tall Chantry hat was gone, her red and white robes streaked with soot and grime.  The look on her face was one that made Morgan’s stomach twist.  She’d seen people look like that before; usually during a stirring tale of Andraste or a sermon on the Maker’s glory.  It was how she had looked when her mother told her the tale of Amelia Brosca.  It was _reverence_.  It stuck in her gut like a knife, twisting.

Others had noticed, murmurs of surprise and shock, people calling out to alert their friends. The calls of ‘Herald’ and ‘Your Worship’ washed over her, praise and thanks that she had come back to them.  She wished she could believe as strongly as they did, instead of dancing around and _hoping_ that maybe some higher power was guiding her.  But what she thought didn’t matter.  She was hope to them, and she would _not_ let them down.  She smiled at them, standing as straight as she was able.

When they smiled back, her heart both swelled and ached. She had never been enough for her father, and had constantly felt that she fell short.  But these people— _her_ people, she thought again—believed in her.  All her effort and strife _meant_ something to them.  She couldn’t fight the tears, and several onlookers began crying as well.  They knew she felt the loss of Haven as keenly as they did, that she suffered and mourned with them, all without a single word. 

Then, in a low, clear voice, Mother Giselle began to sing. _“Shadows fall, and hope has fled_. _Steele your heart, the dawn will come.”_

Morgan knew the song, and it brought a fresh wave of tears. It was one she knew, was sure that everyone in Thedas knew.  But it had been special to her, speaking of the hope to come despite what hardships might be present.  There had been years of her life where she had contemplated suicide on a daily basis.  That song had helped.  It made her think of the good things she still had, of what she still wanted to accomplish.  And now the Revered Mother sang it upon the Herald’s return, bringing new meaning to the familiar words.

Others took up the song, adding their voices. _“The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon… the dawn will come.”_

Morgan saw the faces of soldiers, haggard and bruised, some bloody and bandaged. She wept silently for their fallen comrades, her hand clutching at Bull, feeling Hinter on her left.  As she turned her brimming eyes back to the advisors in time to see Leliana join the singers, her voice high and beautiful.

_“The Shepard’s lost, and his path is dark. Keep to the stars, the dawn will come.”_

Cullen added his voice as well, the sound clear and bright, more lovely that Morgan could have ever expected. More and more voices joined until the song seemed to come from all around Morgan, her pain momentarily forgotten in the rush of humble gratitude.  She was their Herald, and their hope.  She would not let them down again.

_“The night is long and the path is dark_

_Look to the sky for one day soon_

_The dawn will come_

_Bare your blade and raise it high_

_S_ _tand your ground, the dawn will come_

_The night is long and the path is dark_

_Look to the sky for one day soon_

_The dawn will come”_

 


	12. Finding a Way Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold! And some fluffy things.

 

Again, Morgan’s hand lifted, running over the bottom of her left ear. Frostbite had taken the lobe, and it was taking her a while to get used to the missing piece.  Her ribs were healing slowly, and the heavy breaths drawn by trekking through the mountains still pained her greatly.  Not that she would ever admit it.  Sh’vara checked her every day, and every day, Morgan refused further healing, saying that others might need it more if they lingered in the mountains.  Pausing, she turned to look back, eyes moving slowly over the winding train of wagons, animals and people.

Beside her, Bull stopped as well. “You good, Boss?”

Dropping her hand, Morgan huffed out a cloudy breath. “No,” she said plainly.  So far ahead of the others, she didn’t have to wear her mask, and didn’t have to be the strong, unflappable leader. 

“Your hip again?” Bull’s knee told him at every opportunity that he was _not_ meant for a life in the mountains.

Striding forward, Morgan nodded.   “Solas said that we should be getting close.”

The dawn after the attack on Haven, Solas had come to them with a glimmer of hope. In his dreams, he had seen an ancient fortress, built and inhabited by many different generations, but long since abandoned.  He was convinced that it was close enough to reach before the situation became dire.  With no other option, Morgan had seized upon the information gladly.  But with so many injured and civilians not used to hard travel, it was slow going.  They were able to hunt on the move, taking mostly mountain sheep and the few wolves foolish enough to try for the horses.  Morgan wanted to find the fortress before _people_ started turning to horses.

“We should have been looking for a new location sooner,” Morgan said, breath pluming the air before her.

“There’s no way you could have known that this was coming, Boss,” Bull said.

“Doesn’t matter,” she insisted stubbornly. “It was a terrible location for defence.  We should have been looking anyways.”

“Yeah,” Bull admitted, “maybe we should have. Doesn’t make it your fault.”

Her shoulders sagged, and another heavy sigh clouded the air. “I know… it’s just…”

“You feel responsible for them.”

That earned Bull a wry smile and a helpless shrug. “How can I not?  They trust me to take care of them.” 

That trust was heavier than lead, a noose around her neck keeping her tethered. There was no forgetting the responsibility, and it showed on her face.  The lines on her brow were deeper, and the shadows under her eyes were darker.  She and Bull had begun sharing a tent again, Hinter curled as close to his master as he was able.  But Bull knew that she wasn’t sleeping well.  The nightmares had returned, her father’s face speaking to her as her worst fears were laid out in exacting detail.  She saw Bull and Hinter die again and again, her friends’ worst fears visited on them while they cried to her for help.  Each and every time, Morgan was rooted to the spot, frozen and unmoving as they screamed and died. 

“You have to let people take care of you, too, you know,” Bull finally said. “It’s not shameful to ask for help.”

“They can’t see me falter,” Morgan said softly. They were nearing the crest of the hill, and she picked up the pace, limping slightly as her hip protested.  Bull let her pass him, watching her push ahead, Hinter on her heels.  When she reached the top of the hill, she stopped in her tracks and went perfectly still.  He saw her shoulders sag, and watched her lock her knees to keep from falling.  As he hurried to meet her, he heard her say something, but couldn’t catch the words.

There was indeed a valley laid out before them, long and deep, cut through the rock by some ancient, long gone river. A great chasm cut across the valley, too dark and far away to see the bottom of.  A tower jutted up on the side closest to them, the top crumbling and ancient, but the rest of the structure still standing.  A stone bridge had been built out from the tower, supports vanishing down into the chasm.  The bridge ended at a massive tower gate, and beyond that…

“We found it,” Morgan breathed, reaching out for Bull’s hand. He let her small fingers curl around his, and squeezed back gently.

‘Skyhold’, Solas had called the castle, and it was magnificent. Dark gray towers jutted up from high walls against the white backdrop of snow, the remains of siege equipment just barely visible on the parapets.  There were more towers inside, one climbing high above the others.  The tattered remains of banners clung to their poles, the fabric sun-bleached beyond any sort of recognition.  It was still a good distance away, but it was _there_. 

“It’s really there, right? I’m not just desperate and insane and seeing things?”  Her voice was a whisper, nearly snatched away by the nearly constant wind.

“No, I see it, too,” Bull murmured. His hand left hers to clap her gently on the back, squeezing.  “Just wait till they see this.”

 

000

 

Before bringing the civilians in, everyone decided that it was prudent to send a scouting group ahead, to make sure that they were not walking into anything but an empty, usable castle. For as solid as it looked, it could still easily be a crumbling ruin, unsafe for any sort of habitation.  That weight settled on Morgan’s shoulders and into her limbs, fingers twitching with anxiety.  Leading the group, she descended the slope, flanked by Bull and Hinter.  With her mind already buzzing, Morgan had not argued with Cullen when he wanted to send a small party of soldiers with them.  To her surprise, there were a few mages there as well, in Inquisition armor that had to have been new before the attack on Haven.

The remains of a road could be seen occasionally, the continuous wind having carved away the snow. Up ahead, the first square tower loomed, the tattered remains of ancient flags flapping madly.  The sharp sound faded to the background as Morgan stepped through the arch, finding solid stone underfoot.  The arch was more than wide enough for two full sized wagons to enter side by side, the bridge extending out before her equally as wide. 

And beyond the bridge, she saw the simple grid of a portcullis, half raised and rusted red against the slate color of the stones. The castle beyond was massive, the rectangular shape of the inner keep now visible.  It was the biggest structure that Morgan had ever seen, words failing her as she simply stared.  There would certainly be more than enough room for the Inquisition here.  As she began to walk the bridge, Morgan realized that she was praying, words from the Chant of Light pulled from distant memory, shaped soundlessly by her wind-chapped lips.

           

   _‘Bride of the Maker, my enemies are abundant._            

_Many are those who set themselves against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Hope and light remain.’_

 

The words were different, she knew, but she could not place all her faith in the Maker. She could no more have faith in a god that abandoned his creations than she could have faith in her own father.  But she could believe in Andraste, in the woman that had risen from slave to warrior queen, _guided_ by the Maker.  She could find faith and guidance in the words of that woman, who had torn expectations of her to shreds, emerging shining and victorious.

She could hear the quiet metallic clink of Bull’s brace on her left, and the soft scrape of Hinter’s claws on her right. If they had been alone, she felt that she would have reached for Bull’s hand again, seeking reassurance in his strength and solidness.  Instead, she lifted her right arm slightly, hand flat and parallel to the stone.  Hinter knew the signal, and slid himself under her arm, her hand falling to rest easily on his shoulders.  The motion of his body was familiar and calming, a simple, yet complex thing.

As they drew closer, she could see differences in the stones of the castle. Some were lighter than the others, subtle changes in color that could only have come from different sections of quarry.  The bridge was the same, when she looked, certain stones looking more worn than others.  She could see places were stone had crumbled and been cut away, replaced with newer and stronger.  And here and there, the stones had been cut differently, laid together in an entirely different style than the stone a few feet below.  The realization came slowly; the fortress was ancient, built and rebuilt by generations of different races, each with their own style of construction.  There were even the large, square blocks that dwarves favored.  With such a mismatched group of companions, Morgan couldn’t help but think that such a place would fit the Inquisition perfectly.

The first problem made itself known at the drawbridge. The massive chains used to raise and lower it were gone, probably rusted to nothing.  The wood of the bridge itself was solid enough on one side, but the other side made everyone a bit nervous.  But there were plenty of trees growing in the valley where the bulk of the Inquisition remained, and there was sure to be plenty of iron in the mountains.  Both bridge and chains could be repaired and remade.  The portcullis was as rusty up close as it had appeared from a distance, but to Morgan’s trained eye, it looked salvageable.

Upon stepping over the wide threshold, Morgan was hit by a warm breeze. It took her a moment to realize why it was so strange.  The mountain wind still whipped at her back, icy and biting, but before her, it felt like spring, the sun turned warm and pleasant, rather than harsh and glaring.  She could hear _birds_ , singing and chirping.  She stepped forward, lips slightly parted in awe.  “Songbirds,” she breathed, eyes taking in the overgrown trees, their leaves healthy and green despite the icy winter climate beyond the walls.

One of the mages came after them, pulling off a glove to lay her hand on one of the inner walls. “The magic here is ancient,” she whispered.  “So many different spells…  Laid over one another over hundreds of years.  Hundreds of mages…”  A smile of wonder lit her face.  “It’s like each generation kept adding thread to a web, growing the pattern and repairing older bits.  Everything is in such perfect sync…”  Her expression was mirrored in her awestruck tone.

“So it’s not going to boil us alive or explode?” Bull asked, and the mage shook her head, still swept up in the wonder of it all.

As they walked into the bailey, Morgan loosened the scarf around her neck, throwing her cloak back over her shoulders. She could see the birds now, flitting between overgrown bushes and leafy trees, chirping loudly at the new arrivals.  They had to go around to reach the stairs that led up to the massive structure of the keep, picking their way over rocks and wood so rotted that moss had begun to overtake it.  It had been many, _many_ years since this place had been inhabited by anything more than birds.

The steps were worn but solid, some of it almost completely smooth from repeated walks up and down. The age of the place touched something in Morgan, soothing her nerves even though there was no railing along the steps that climbed over an arch to lead to the hall.  The tall wooden doors would need replacing, but rust didn’t seem to have touched the fittings.  Bull had to throw his weight into one, making the gap wide enough for everyone to get through.

Inside, the main hall was painted in colored light, all eyes drawn instantly to the source. Huge stained glass windows sat at the end of the massive hall, behind a raised dais perfect for a throne.  Bull watched Morgan walk slowly forward, patches of colored light flowing over her, turning her hair red, green, purple, and blue.  As her sight adjusted to the slightly dimmer light of the hall, Morgan felt her breath catch in her throat.  Instead of a tableau of the Maker, or just Andraste, Morgan realized that she was seeing scenes from the Canticle of Shartan, the verses stricken from most Chantry teachings.  It showed a dark elvhen man clasping hands with the Bride of the Maker, another showing the two of them commanding their armies.

Morgan realized that the shape of the stone window frames was elvhen as well, and she smiled, the expression sharp. She would keep the windows, and they would make the racist nobles uncomfortable.  The elves’ places in history had been erased so many times; it would not happen here, not if Morgan had any say.  And it wasn’t like they could really object; Andraste was resplendent, with a crown of fiery hair, her sword raised high and shield bearing the sunburst of the Maker.

Bull was apparently thinking along the same lines. “That’s gonna ruffle some feathers,” he pointed out.

Morgan turned a wicked grin in his direction, eyes sparkling. “I _know_ ,” she giggled.  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

He laughed, the sound low and rough. Morgan’s stomach dropped.  “You just love pissing people off, don’t you, Boss?”  He gave her that same rakish half smile he’d given her that first time, on the coast, and her chest fluttered.

_‘Shit.’_

 

000

 

Getting everyone inside took time. Finding places for everyone took longer.  A camp was made in the lower bailey, stones and rubbish cleared.  The wood not too damp with moss and plant growth was used to start two fires, a mountain sheep spitted on each.  When Morgan looked worried, Cassandra told her that rationing had already begun, and Leliana was heading a group of scouts going back to Haven for supplies, and to inform anyone arriving to the ruin.

Skyhold had obviously been built for a military and civilian presence, with two huge dormitories. One was part of the main keep, with larger quarters at the bottom—probably for visiting nobles--turning to long, shared rooms that could be fitted with bunks.  The building that would be the barracks was long and low, near what had once been a massive barn, the rotted remains of horse tack giving away the former stable.  Not only would all the horses have room once everything was repaired, but there was room for many more animals, maybe even some ducks and chickens.  Morgan was already thinking back to the duck egg omelets her mother had made every year for Morgan’s birthday.

The cooks found the kitchen without help, saying that it was always in the same place in castles like these. Something in the magic of the place had preserved the large iron stoves and ovens, and Morgan saw one of older cooks begin to weep at the sight of it.  There was a chapel, of course, the statue of Andraste wrapped with vines, flowers growing up through the cracks in the stone at her feet.  The garden beyond the chapel was massive, with space for vegetables and flowers and benches, maybe even a fountain!  When they found the ancient—and smaller—statue of Mythal, also overtaken by nature, Morgan decided that _everyone_ would have a place to worship at Skyhold.  They would have whatever they needed, and no one could stop her.

 

000

 

Bull watched her moving through the courtyard and up the steps, walking between Josephine and Cullen. Both seemed to be talking at the same time, Morgan doing her best to listen to them both.  Bull couldn’t help but smile.  When night fell, she would be out as surely as there were two moons in the sky.  Krem came up to him, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he watched the three vanish into the hall. 

“Word is, they’re going to name her Inquisitor once we’re settled,” Krem said.

Blinking, Bull looked down at his lieutenant, then shrugged. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Skinner.”

“So she was spying.”

Krem chuckled. “Yeah, probably.  How do you think she’ll do?”  He nodded in the direction Morgan had gone.

“You’re asking me?” Bull put on a quizzical look.

The young man rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m asking _you_.  You probably know her better than anyone, at this point.”  Bull said nothing, and Krem frowned.  “Have you noticed?  She doesn’t look over her shoulder when you’re at her back anymore.”  That got a general sort of grumbling noise.  “I saw her fight on the way back from the Coast.  No matter who was behind her, she kept an eye on them; she didn’t trust them not to turn and stab her in the back.  She doesn’t do that with you anymore.”

Bull _had_ noticed.  Morgan still watched Sera and Dorian when she was fighting, but he never caught her looking back at him.  She didn’t do it much with Dorian, probably because of Redcliffe.  He knew that she _liked_ both Sera and Dorian plenty, and counted them as friends.  But she didn’t trust them.  But she had decided to trust _him_ , the self-admitted qunari spy.  His hands tightened on his crossed arms.  He knew what trust meant to the dwarf, and was starting to understand what it meant that she felt safe enough to share as much as she had with him.

 

000

 

Since elfroot had grown wild throughout Skyhold—especially in the garden—Morgan wanted a clinic set up right way. Many were still dealing with injuries and illnesses, and keeping her people healthy was a paramount concern.  She was too busy to think about her aching shoulder, about how tired her feet were, or how oily her hair felt.  So when Varric approached, saying that he had someone that she should speak to, she didn’t think anything of it, agreeing to a meeting on one of the corner towers.

With Cullen and Cassandra busy organizing the soldiers to assist in clean up and reconstruction, she went by herself, still looking over some of the papers that Josephine had hastily drawn up. Even in a rush, her handwriting was flawless, if a bit more widely spaced.  The cold wind of the mountains could still be felt on the wall walk, at odds with the warmth of the castle itself.  Coming down the steps took her out of the wind, and she tucked some loose hair behind her ear.  She saw Varric first, then the human woman he was speaking to.  Something in the woman’s light brown skin, dark hair, and striking blue eyes was familiar in a vague sort of way, like she’d heard descriptions of the woman, but never seen her in person.  It all clicked when Varric made the introductions.

“Morgan, meet Marian Hawke, also known as the Champion of Kirkwall.” He was sheepish, but that didn’t diminish the flourish in his voice. 

“Though I don’t use that title much anymore,” the woman said, accent softly Ferelden.

Morgan stared. Marian Hawke was tiny, barely a head taller than Varric.  Her thick black hair—gone slightly gray at the temples—was loosely braided over one shoulder, her armor all spikes and angles.  Her bared arms were thick with muscle, and Morgan had no doubt that the petite woman really _could_ bench press a Templar in full plate.  There was a staff at her back, the massive staff blade turning it more into a polearm rather than just as foci for magic.  Her hooked nose led down to a wide, dark mouth, a scar extending from the right corner, as if someone had tried to cut her mouth open.  Her life had carved fine lines into her face, as much from a furrowed brow as from laughter.

Cassandra was going to _murder_ Varric when she found out.

Hawke extended a hand, smiling. Morgan took it and squeezed firmly.  “I’m Morgan Cadash,” she said, completely unsure of how to address one of her personal heroes.  “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” Hawke returned. “You don’t meet many dwarves so interested in mages.”  There was a calculating look in her eyes, something piercing and sharp.  She was waiting, ready to judge Morgan based on her answer.  Morgan gave an honest one.

“With as fucked as the Chantry and Circles were, they need all the help they can get,” she said plainly.

There was a moment of heavy pause before Marian broke into a wide grin, her white teeth slightly crooked. “Oh, I _like_ her, Varric,” she said over her shoulder, blue eyes sparkling now. 

What followed was a much more serious conversation about Corypheus and the curious behavior of the Grey Wardens. The moment the name ‘Alistair’ was mentioned, Morgan was thrust into a whole other level of wonder.  Hawke’s Warden contact was Alistair Fucking Therrin, Veteran of the Fifth Blight and close friend of Amelia Fucking Brosca, Hero of Fucking Ferelden.  She left the conversation with her head spinning, and in dire need of a strong drink.  Her legs felt like jelly as she descended the stairs, arms hanging heavy at her sides.  But there was still a great more deal to do.

 

000

 

Dorian was the one who found Morgan at the end of the day, slumped in a corner of the library, the hundreds of tomes covered in dust and cobwebs but preserved from harm. She was perched on a stool, and open bottle of wine in her hand.  Night had fallen outside, the moonlight making her pale face almost white in the dark of the castle.  “Really?” Dorian said, sitting down the armchair that had been brought up to the little alcove.  “Drinking without glasses?  However will you share?”

His accented voice was kind and warm, and Morgan turned a small smile in his direction before offering the bottle. “Like any good southern barbarian,” she said.  She hadn’t eaten yet, so she was already starting to feel a bit tipsy.

Accepting the bottle, Dorian examined the label, eyes widening slightly. “Where on _earth_ did you find this?”

“There’s an ancient cellar in this place, full of bottles like that,” Morgan said. “It kind of tastes like raisins.”  Dorian sniffed it and coughed.  “Strong though,” she added with a grin.

He frowned. “This one _has_ to have gone bad.  It’s _ancient_!”  All the same, he took a drink, winced, and then took another before passing it back to Morgan.  “Dreadful.”

“Only if you’re drinking it for the taste,” Morgan pointed out, lips poised at the mouth of the bottle.

“You could just have some of that swill that Bull carries around with him if you’re looking to get properly drunk, and don’t care about taste.”

“What? No ‘giant buffoon?’”  Morgan made a show of narrowing her eyes suspiciously at him.  “He called you by name, too, the other day.  Are you two suddenly friends?”

“Most certainly _not_ ,” the mage huffed.  “The Commander is much better company.”

The dwarf blinked. “The Commander?  You mean _Cullen_?”

“Yes, I—” He stopped short as Morgan pursed her lips against a poorly concealed grin, her eyebrows rising.  “No.  Don’t you _start_.”  He snatched the bottle from her and took a long drink.

“Oh no,” Morgan said, grinning openly now and leaning forward. “ _You_ brought him up.”

“He’s actually a decent opponent in chess, and doesn’t tend to drone on the way Solas does.”

“He’s much prettier, too,” said Morgan, waggling her eyebrows.

“Are you sure you wish to pursue this line of questioning?” Dorian asked archly. “Because we could discuss _your_ taste in men as well.”  Morgan snorted.  “You are aware, of course, that most people believe _you_ to be among the Iron Bull’s many conquests?”  Morgan flushed _scarlet_ , ears burning.  “Hah!” Dorian cackled triumphantly. 

“Bull’s _not_ interested in me,” Morgan muttered, snatching the bottle back.

“Of course he is.” The mage waved a dismissive hand.  “He’s interested in _everyone_.”

“Not _me_ ,” Morgan insisted.  “He likes the busty barmaid type.”  Dorian glanced politely down at her chest and then back to her face, raining a single, perfect brow.  Morgan huffed.  “Like that redhead working with Flissa!  All tits and freckles and legs for miles!”

“By my count, you have two out of three of those qualities.” He crossed his arms over his chest.  “While not to _my_ taste, those interested would consider those qualities attractive.”

“No,” Morgan said flatly.

“No, what?” Dorian pressed. “You don’t have tits and freckles?  My friend, you have both in _spades_.  And those scars make you look quite rakish.  Did you know, Josephine has letters from the Merchant’s Guild full of marriage proposals?”

“Psh, that doesn’t mean _shite_ ,” she muttered.  “They’d marry a nug in a dress if it gave them an advantage over their competitors.  Doesn’t mean Bull is interested, either.  Which he’s _not_.  He’d have _said_ something.”

“And if he _had_?  Would you have said yes?”

She faltered, staring down at the bottle in her hands. Her shoulders sagged.  “I… I don’t know.  I mean, you’ve _seen_ him, right?  All those scars and muscles just… fuck.”  She dragged a hand through her hair.  “He’s lovely, Dorian, but do I really have time for that shit right now?”

“If anyone needs to blow off steam, it’s you,” he pointed out, and got a half smile.

“You’re not wrong,” Morgan admitted with a sigh.

“If not the Bull, what about Varric?” He stole the bottle from her hands, taking a sip.

Morgan groaned. “Maker, have you seen his _arms_?”

“I have, and yes, they do bring the Maker to mind. But I’m sensing a no?”

“Pretty sure he has someone he already cares about,” Morgan said. “The way he talks, sometimes.”

“Are you speaking of everyone’s favorite Seeker?”

“So I’m _not_ crazy!” she crowed, slapping her knee.  “You’ve seen it, too!  I knew their bickering seemed different.  Wait… are they…?”  She made a vague motion with her hands.

“Vivienne and I don’t think so. It will take a great deal more time for anything to blossom there. That, and with him bringing in that particular _friend_ of his…”

“Cassandra may kill him,” Morgan finished, nodding. “Yeah, that’s _not_ gonna be fun.”

“So, since _I_ am _so_ far out of your league, who else is there?” Dorian continued, making Morgan cackle.  “ _You_ could have a crack at the Commander, I suppose.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Eeh, no.  He’s _cute_ , but more in a _puppy_ sort of way than a, ‘I’d like him to bend me over his desk’ way.”

“If he could ever stop stuttering and blushing,” Dorian sniffed. “Blackwall?”  Instantly, Morgan’s face paled, and Dorian completely misunderstood, eyes narrowing.  “Has he—?”

“No!” Morgan waved her hand hurriedly. “He’s never made me uncomfortable; he just looks a lot like my father!” 

“Oh.” He relaxed again, then made a similar expression of dislike.  “Yes, I can see that being horribly traumatic to think about.”  He twisted one end of his mustache.  “So… you enjoy women, yes?”  She nodded.  “Sera?”

“Eauh! No, she’s a baby!”  Morgan found herself giggling.  “I’d feel like a creep.”  She sighed.  “She is really pretty though.”

“If you like the dirty ragamuffin look, I suppose. Josephine?”

Morgan had to think about that. “She’s quite lovely, and always so kind to everyone, but I think…  I think she’d want something real.  I don’t think I could do that right now; an actual relationship.  That, and if I just slept with her and left, Leliana would probably murder me, Inquisition be damned.”

“What _about_ our spymaster?”  A thought occurred to him and he shook his head.  “Never mind.  Alright… Solas?”  Morgan made the most disgusted and horrified face that Dorian had ever seen, and he burst out laughing.  Morgan couldn’t help but join him, and they laughed until she cried.

After that, they settled into a comfortable silence, the wine passed between them until the bottle was empty. Finally, Morgan said, “we’re going to Crestwood, to meet Hawke and Alistair soon.”

“Am I to be included in this venture?” asked the altus, stifling a yawn.

“If you like. I’m going to bring Varric, of course.  And Bull.”

“Naturally.” The spark in his eye was almost bright enough to be magical.

“Hush you.” She stuck out her tongue and he laughed.  “And Dorian?  Thanks.”  He smiled back at her, waving over his shoulder as he left the library.

 

000

 

Another expedition out into the world would have to wait. Construction was proceeding at a rapid pace, the city of tents in the bailey dwindling as the living quarters were made presentable.  Morgan had been given a small room just off the main hall, with a bed and fireplace all to herself.  Josephine spent too much time on the quarters meant for visiting dignitaries in Morgan’s opinion, but she knew that it was necessary.  When asked what the thought, Morgan just grumbled about silk being warm and put to better use as underthings for the soldiers.

The undercroft was what she was most interested in. There were rumors that an archanist was on the way to Skyhold.  Morgan knew them to be true; there _was_ a woman on the way, and several crates of her tools and belongings had already arrived.  Harrit was in love.  That was the only way to describe it.  Every day in the undercroft, he could be found, smiling happily despite the mountains of work laid out for him.  Morgan could have sworn she even heard him singing once.  She understood, too.  The undercroft was a smith’s paradise.

Despite Josephine’s protests, Morgan split her time between meetings with her advisors, and working with the smiths to remake the drawbridge chain. Everyone with even a little experience was drafted in to help, even if all they did was shovel coal into the forge.  As much as smithing made her think of her father, it was hard work, and the more exhausted she was at the end of the day, the less likely she was to have nightmares.  She was loathe to use any kind of potion, in case there was an emergency and she was needed late at night.

Solas tried to speak to her about her dreams, but she shrugged them off. She could hardly be the only one having bad dreams after Haven.  The fact that her father’s face was used was no mystery to her; he had been the source of many of the self-deprecating mannerisms she had developed.  But no matter how well she understood her problems, that didn’t mean that they didn’t wear on her.  Having a million-and-one things to do helped.  It kept her busy, and gave her little time to think. 

On one of the rare moments when she was not required, she would go to the garden, usually finding a solitary spot near the statue of Mythal to relax. The statue was clearly much older than the one of Andraste, the details worn from the face.  The dragon-like wings that took the place of her arms were worn too, but there were hints at minute and complex detail, and Morgan found herself longing for a past she had no connection to.  She could understand a _bit_ of what the elves experienced.  Her own history had been destroyed by the Blights, and rulers too stupid to pull themselves out of the past.  Even now, far below the earth, they stagnated, leaving female babies for the gouls and hurlocks of the Deep Roads. 

The Elvhen Empire had been destroyed by something much more sinister, their history stolen and trampled with malice. Even one of Andraste’s greatest allies was stricken from the Chant, simply because he was an elf.  Not to mention the Orlesian nobility was deeply racist.  She had always hated the way elves and non-humans were treated, but had never had much power to _do_ anything about it.  Now, though…  The Inquisition grew by the day, more flocking to Skyhold as the weeks passed.  Their deeds had _weight_. _Meaning_.  Was there something she could do?

“Morgan?”

At the sound of Cassandra’s voice, Morgan started, quickly straightening her back and turning to face the Seeker. “Yes?  Did you need something?”

“Come with me, please. There’s an important matter you must address.”  There was a glint in the older woman’s eyes that Morgan couldn’t place, even with all her experience and talents.  The expression wasn’t warm, appearing hard and fierce, but without any trace of anger.  Considering how tedious things had become, Morgan was actually surprised to see the Seeker without her usual scowl.  So she followed, curious, as Cassandra led her out of the garden. 

“There hasn’t been fighting again, has there?” Morgan asked. There had been a few scuffles and fist-fights as Josephine struggled to find lodging for all the new arrivals, noble and common alike.  Morgan was of the opinion that families with young children or the elderly should be housed first, but apparently politics still played a role.

“No, nothing like that. This is a bit… a _great deal_ , more important.” 

“Well that sound ominous,” Morgan muttered to herself. They came out a side door into the great hall, and found it strangely empty.  Morgan’s frowned deepened, eyes still glued to the Seeker’s face as they opened the doors and began down the stairs.

“The Inquisition is growing stronger,” Cassandra said, hands clasped behind her back. “But we cannot advance without a proper leader.  An Inquisitor.  We have decided to appoint the one who has already been leading us.”

Something cold settled in the pit of Morgan’s stomach, and her eyes finally looked beyond Cassandra. There was a spot where the stairs flattened into a large, circular platform, the steps continuing down at a new angle.  The platform had a perfect view of the lower courtyard, the evening sun bathing it in golden light.  Leliana stood on the platform, carrying an ornate longsword across her outspread palms, looking far too much like a Chantry statue for Morgan’s liking.

And there, faces lit by the setting sun, stood nearly every resident of the castle, crowded close and staring upwards.  They were waiting for _her_ , Morgan realized, and her heart began to pound.  She went rigid on the steps, and Cassandra stopped, looking up at her.  “Has the mountain air made you light headed?!” she hissed through clenched teeth, even as she felt a cold sweat break out along her spine and under her arms.  “They won’t accept a dwarf!”

“They already have,” Cassandra pointed out.

“Not as their _leader_!”  Morgan was doing her best to keep a calm, placid expression.  Running away no would be disastrous.

“They _will_ follow you,” Cassandra insisted as she gestured to Leliana.  The Spymaster stepped forward, offering the beautifully ornate sword, a roaring dragon wrapped to become the guard and part of the handle.  “To them,” Cassandra continued, “being a dwarf just shows how special you are, how Andraste chose you above all others.”

Morgan’s stomach churned; it was obvious that Cassandra believed those words as well. That belief was so heavy, settling on her shoulders and making them ache at just the thought.  The devout, stormy, passionate Seeker… believed in _her_.  Believed in an ex-smuggler who doubted herself more often than not.  How could anyone expect her to bear that weight?

“What that belief means to you, and how you chose to lead us; that is for you alone to determine.” Cassandra smiled down at the younger woman, warm and genuine and _real_.  Morgan wasn’t used to real, to the honesty that Cassandra lived her life with.

She half turned, facing the crowd below now, and looking down. There were soldiers and craftsmen, bar maids and Chantry sisters.  And there was Dorian, standing within arm’s reach of Cullen and Josephine.  Varric was there too, and offered a helpless smile and shrug as their eyes met.  There was Sera, grinning madly and with soot on her face and hands.  And Bull, standing with the Chargers at his back and his arms crossed over his chest… Morgan’s hands clenched, her fingernails digging into the mark and sending a sharp tingle shooting up her arm.

Then he smiled, too. It was that same maddeningly heart-fluttering, chest-tightening, blush inducing smile.  But there was more to it.  Under the smirk and pulling of scars, Morgan saw satisfaction.  He was _glad_ she was being named Inquisitor, he thought it was a _good_ idea.  Just like Cassandra, he believed that she could do it.  And as her eyes slid from him, searching the others in the crowd, she saw hope.  There was nothing hesitant left on any of the faces there.  They all beamed up at Morgan, the honesty of their belief more precious to her than any amount of gold.  Tears pricked her eyes, and she turned back to Leliana.

The barest ghost of a smile crossed the bard’s face, before she bowed her head and presented the sword again, the weapon seeming to glow in the setting sun. She had made and carried weapons for all races and sizes of people, but the sword held out to her was the heaviest thing she had ever lifted.  The weight of it, and of the responsibility, made her arm threaten to shake, but she squared her jaw and straightened her shoulders, head held high.  Taking a trembling breath, she turned, the gazes of those gathered burning into her as she held the sword before her.

“Corypheus intends to rule you as a god!” she shouted. “He would tear down everything that you have built, destroy everything you cherish!  I will set an army against him, and he will die for his foolishness!”  She had been paying special attention to Bull lately, to the way he spoke and communicated in battle.  When subtle tilts of his horns or shifts of his shoulders wouldn’t do, he could pitch his voice to carry over even the loudest fight.  Morgan used what she had learned now, sending her voice belting through the bailey, echoing off the walls.

“I stand before you, and I see all the peoples of Thedas; dwarves, qunari, elves, humans! We must stand for this world, for all of us that call this land home!  None will be slighted or left behind for the race or station they were born to, so long as their hearts and hands are willing!  I stand before you as a dwarf, and I tell you that the Inquisition is for all!  For it will take each and every one of us to defeat Corypheus!”  She could _feel_ the energy radiating, and her own face flushed and her chest burning.  She saw Bull smiling, and could look at nothing else.

Cassandra stepped forward, her voice just as loud and passionate. “Have the people been told?!” she called.

Josephine stepped forward, her voice as clear as a bell. “They have!  And soon, the world!”

“Commander,” Cassandra was beaming, her smile dazzling, “will they follow?”

Cullen, his armor newly polished and the fur of his coat glossier than Morgan had ever seen, stepped up to a small rise of earth before the gathering. His voice was loud and sharp, cutting through everything, pitched for battle and to rally.  “Inquisition!  Will you follow?”  He did not speak to just the soldiers, and everyone cheered, the sound making Morgan tremble.  “Will you fight?!” 

The Commander’s next words were lost among the cheers, even as he drew his sword in a salute, turning to Morgan and looking up at her with such conviction and trust that she began to weep. She thrust the sword aloft in answer, the cheer deafening.  It filled her, making her ears ache and her pulse race.  The sound washed over her, wave after wave of people cheering.  Cheering for _her_ , believing!  How could she ever have thought to deny them?  Maybe they didn’t need her as Morgan Cadash, but she would be their Inquisitor, she would see this through to the end, no matter where the path led.  Closing her eyes, she felt the tears stream down her face, and prayed that no one saw.

 

000

 

It was a good party. It spilled out of the hall and onto the lawn, people sitting on rocks and blankets when the chairs ran out.  The smell of cooking food and spilled ale filled the air, rising above the singing and laughter.  Dogs barked and milled about, picking up what was dropped and play-fighting over sticks or bones.  But one dog in particular was notably absent; one who took great pleasure in charming as many people out of their food as possible.  A quick glance around from his towering height identified several dwarves, but none of them accompanied by a monstrous black and white mutt. 

He’d seen her a few moments ago, shaking hands with recruits, smiling and laughing with them as Hinter offered a regal paw in exchange for a delicately taken nibble of meat. A white tunic caught his eye, standing out against the dark wood of the door to the main hall.  He saw Morgan toss a nervous glance back over her shoulder before she slipped through the big double doors, closing them behind her as quietly as possible.  Bull starting moving through the crowd.  It wasn’t terribly difficult; no one really wanted to be in his way.  He found a basket and filled it with half an Orlesian baguette, several different kinds of cheese, and an unopened bottle of wine.

Even with people gladly making room for him, it took him a while to get up the steps and through the doors. It was equally packed inside, the long tables piled with food and drink.  Jugglers were tossing whatever they could handle into the air, and one of the younger mages was filling the air with glowing butterflies in every color imaginable.  A short ways down, Bull saw Morgan pulling Hinter through the door that led to the gardens.

The Chargers were down at the tavern, helping Flissa and the new bartender, Cabot, come up with a name for the new place. Bull was fairly certain they were going to go with something to do with Morgan.  They’d mean well, and she’d hate it, because it would be yet another reminder.  She had yet another unwanted title.  He’d seen the fear in her eyes when she’d looked out at the crowd.  But he’d also seen the way she tossed it all aside, lifting the ornate blade with all her strength, declaring an Inquisition that stood for all peoples of Thedas. 

By the time he’d gotten to the door, he’d had to rebuff two lovely kitchen ladies, and the muscular red-headed man that had joined up not long before Haven. He was more upset about that last one, as he’d been flirting with the man for weeks.  But he knew where he was needed and, sadly, it wasn’t in the bed of the strapping young soldier.  Morgan had left the door open behind her, and Bull slipped through and closed it silently behind him.  He could feel his ears twitch as he strained to pick up some sound; crying, yelling, swearing, anything.

But it was silent beyond the door, the soft chirping of birds the only sound in the deserted gardens. The new vegetable patch had been planted earlier that day, and the workers had left to celebrate. Though a piece of land that large could hardly be called a ‘patch’.  “Hey, Boss?” he called, stepping out onto the grass, breathing in the smell of freshly tilled earth.

For a long time there was silence, and Bull had gotten more than halfway across the garden before Morgan answered. “They made me Inquisitor, Bull.”  She was standing before the statue of one of the Elvhen gods, the one with what looked like dragon horns and wings.  Hinter sat beside her, looking around his master’s back and wagging happily at the sight of his friend.

Bull stood beside her, setting the basket on the ground. “Yeah, I saw that.”  He pulled the cork out with his teeth and offered her the bottle of wine.  She took it wordlessly and took a long drink.  “You really didn’t know?”

“I mean, it had crossed my mind,” Morgan whispered, voice tight. “But then they actually went and fucking _did_ it.  And I said _yes_!  In _front_ of people!”

He let her keep the wine, tearing off a chunk of bread and topping it with a matching chunk of cheese. She took it silently, chewing slowly.  Bull made himself some, letting his eyes move around the garden.  “Yeah, that’s usually how coronations go,” he said.  “You’d expected this since before Haven.”

“I’d hoped they’d pick Cassandra,” Morgan muttered into the mouth of the bottle. “What would the Inquisition have been like if _she’d_ had the Mark?”  She balled her left hand into a fist and refused to look at it. 

“Well, you’d probably have been killed at the Conclave, and that would have sucked,” Bull pointed out.

Morgan snorted. “So the little dwarf with big tits and a bow dies; the world has Cassandra, the Mark of Andraste in one hand a sword in the other.  It would have been fine.”  Her tone was dry and bitter, and she took another drink of wine.

“Hinter would be starving in the Hinterlands without you, or eaten by some bear,” Bull pointed out, and she flinched, glancing over at him. “And Sera; would Cassandra have recruited her?  Or that guy who joined a cult, but his girlfriend died?” Morgan’s hand moved along Hinter’s spine, tracing the smooth skin of the healed scars.  She scratched near the center of his ribs, and his foot began to twitch.  “And all those mages.  They’d be prisoners again without you.”

“You’d be happier if they had been conscripted,” Morgan said, unable and unwilling to regret the bitterness in her tone.

“Yeah, I thought that was a better idea at the time,” Bull admitted, coming around to stand in front of Morgan. When she avoided his gaze he grabbed her jaw gently, tilting her up to look at him. “But you brought them in as equals, and made them a part of the Inquisition.  They’ve grown a lot since you did that.  They’re not running around, waiting to be cut down by Templars.  That’s _important_.  All you’ve done, it’s important, Boss.  It _means_ something to those people out there.”

“I know,” Morgan hissed, the words catching in her throat. Something fierce lit her eyes then, and her jaw tightened.  “I know the weight I’ve shouldered, Bull,” she said sharply, pulling her jaw from his hold. 

Bull straightened, frowning down at the woman before him. “I’m not saying you don’t, Boss.  You’re taking the weight of the world, no questions or complaints.  But there’s probably a reason it’s coming your way in the first place.”

“Oh, because I’m the fucking Herald of Andraste?” Morgan scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, closing herself off.

“No,” Bull said sharply, the edge in his voice taking her by surprise. “I don’t know about the Mark or any of that shit.  What I _do_ know is that it takes a very rare sort of person to be willing to take on the responsibility you have.  Even rarer?  Someone to takes that weight, and can actually _hold_ it.  You think you’re turning yourself into a completely different person to be the Inquisitor, to be the Herald.  But whoever you’re playing at?  It’s still you.  All that strength, all those inspiring words, they’re yours, Morgan.”

The anger drained like a cut artery, flowing away from her and taking her strength with it. Morgan shoulders sagged, and she sat down hard on the grass, wine bottle still in her hand.  She heard Bull’s soft grunt as he sat down across from her.  He cut a slice of bread this time, and spread some herb-crusted goat cheese over it.  Morgan took the offered morsel without a word, washing it down with a gulp of wine.  They continued that way for a while, Morgan silently accepting little bites of food, and Bull feeding himself while she chewed.  They could hear the music and sounds of people celebrating beyond.

The sky darkened, and without servants to come light the torches, the only light that eventually remained came from the stars. Finishing the last gulp of wine, Morgan flopped onto her back, kicking her legs out in front of her, the sole of one boot just brushing Bull’s knee.  She wanted to curl into a ball, to make herself as small as possible so she could just fade into the background, where she was most comfortable.  But there was no hiding anymore, not from any of it. 

“I can do this, right, Bull?” she said quietly.

“Well, what I think doesn’t matter near as much as what _you_ think,” he said.

“What you think _does_ matter, ass-hat,” she muttered.

“Ass-hat?” he snorted. “You’re so mean, Boss.” 

Morgan could hear the smile in his voice, and sat up, meeting his eyes while Hinter laid his head in her lap. “I trust you, Bull.  I’m sure people will give me shit for it, but I do.  You’ve had my back from the beginning, even when I didn’t trust you there.  I…”  She fumbled, cheeks warming.  “I’m going to second guess that trust.  A _lot_.  The Carta isn’t a place for trust.  But I _do_ trust you, just…”  Words failed her, and she growled in quiet frustration.

“You just don’t trust yourself?” Bull offered.

“Close enough,” she said with a shrug. “I want you to come with me to Crestwood.  There have been some troubling reports there, in addition to Hawke’s contact.”  A thought occurred to her.  “How’s the Qun feel about the Inquisition working with the Champion of Kirkwall?”

Bull laughed quietly, shifting his head so that the sliver light of the moon caught on the rugged plains of his face, a face that would never have been smooth, even without the scars. Most probably saw that face and thought ‘savage’.  Morgan saw a fierce survivor, someone strong and unrelenting, standing in the deadly current and withstanding all that came at them.  And he wore his scars with pride, unrepentant in his joy of battle.  She found that pride beautiful.

“They completely disavowed the Arishok’s actions in Kirkwall,” Bull said. “I’m pretty sure he went crazy, so focused on his mission to get that damn book—plus being away from home so long—that he forgot his restraint.”  He shrugged.  “There’s a new Arishok now.  No one’s said anything about Hawke to me.  Well, other than ‘be careful’.  But that goes without saying with her.  Her cheekbones alone could flay you alive.”

“And her _arms_ ,” Morgan sighed.  “The new Arishok is the same qunari that fought with Amelia Brosca, right?  Sten?”

“Sten just means soldier, which was what he was at the time,” Bull explained. “But yeah, same guy.”

“Small fucking world,” Morgan muttered, and Bull nodded. She could still hear the celebration going beyond the garden, and felt ashamed at how much she wanted to avoid it.  She was also ashamed of wanting to ask Bull if she’d been out there long enough to warrant slipping away for the night.  Her hands dragged through her hair, pausing to pluck at the place where her left earlobe had been.  “Shouldn’t you be out there?” she said finally, making a vague gesture towards the noise of the party.  “Seducing all the lovely men and women?”

“You needed me here,” he said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

His eyes met hers, and suddenly the silence wasn’t comfortable as it usually was. It was thick, laden with a tension that Morgan couldn’t recognize.  Her chest tightened and her stomach fluttered, and she was suddenly acutely aware of how close she was sitting to Bull.  Even sitting down, he was still much larger than her, all gray muscle and silver scars set in starkly contrasting light and shadow.  A tingle of fear prickled the back of her neck, but it came without alarm, and without the instinctual urge to run.  As heat unfurled in her belly, Morgan recognized the feeling as excitement.

Without even trying to read Bull’s face, she shot to her feet, feeling color and heat climb over her cheeks and up to her ears. “I’m going to bed,” she announced rather loudly.  “Hopefully I can sneak through the hall.”  She gave an awkward smile, but it gentled before she turned away, small and genuine.  “Thanks, Bull.”

He smiled back and her chest tightened sharply. “Any time, Boss.”

Morgan used every trick she had to get to get back to her small quarters without being noticed. She locked and bolted the door, then threw herself down on the bed, heart pounding in her ears.  Was Bull aware of the effect he had on her?  Did he _know_ what that fucking smile did to her insides?  Tied them in knots, was what it did.  Knots of heat and want that she _knew_ were foolish and would never amount to anything.  She kicked off her boots and tossed them across the room.  They both struck the wall with a dull thud that was not satisfying at all.  Morgan buried her head in her pillow and swore loudly, Hinter nosing her cheek in concern.

Rolling violently onto her back, she glared up at the ceiling. _‘I don’t have time for shit like that.’_ She repeated the thought over and over to herself as she changed into her nightshirt, added logs to the fire, and crawled into bed.  She was still thinking it when she finally drifted off, her dreams full of the Iron Bull, rather than nightmares of red lyrium.

 

000

 

Morgan was awake before the knock on her door, and the sun had already burned through the early morning mist, shining merrily through her window. Wrapping one of her blankets around her, she moved quickly across the cold floor and opened the door a crack.  A glimpse of blue silk and gold ruffles.  “Are you decent, Inquisitor?” the ambassador asked.

“I can be in just a moment,” Morgan said, voice slightly raspy with sleep.

“Excellent,” Josephine practically chirped. “Do join us when you’re ready.”

 _‘Us?’_ Morgan thought blearily, as she dressed in a pair of dark wool trousers, her boots, and a loose cotton tunic.  Not bothering with her stay, she buttoned herself into a tight leather vest, adjusting herself before stepping out into the hall, Hinter on her heels.  Josephine led her to the war room, and thus began a long, arduous morning.  They discussed each and every one of the _eight_ nobles that would be arriving in the next few days.  That meant family history, the trades or politics they were involved in, their pastimes, hobbies, and their children.

Morgan did her best to listen, drinking as much tea as was offered, even after it went cold. Both breakfast and lunch passed while she was with Cullen and Leliana, Josephine having vanished several hours earlier with an explanation Morgan could not remember.  Cullen’s hands looked to be bothering him, as he paused often to flex his fingers, or to rub one hand with the other.  Something was making him nervous, his eyes shifting all around the room.  He met Morgan’s eyes rarely, and even then his gaze didn’t linger long.

There was not even the slightest hint from Leliana, but Morgan wouldn’t have expected any less. They deflected questions that were not immediately pertinent to the matter at hand, and by the time the sun had started to descend, Morgan was hungry, tired, and royally pissed off.  When the meeting was adjourned, Morgan put herself in front of the door, blocking their exit and putting her hands on her hips.  She put her focus on Cullen, as he was the most likely to break.  Her gaze was fiercer than he expected, and he instantly looked away.

“Out with it,” Morgan demanded. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Cullen said instantly.

“Whatever do you mean, Inquisitor?” Leliana said innocently.

Morgan had just opened her mouth to speak, when the door pulled open behind her, making her spin. Josephine was there, pink-cheeked, smiling, and slightly breathless.  Morgan was instantly more suspicious than before, and she narrowed her eyes.  “Will _you_ tell me what’s going on?” she said, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

“No need to be upset, Inquisitor,” Josephine said happily. “We’ve just been working on a surprise for you.  If you’ll follow me?”  She waited until the dwarf gave an uncertain nod before turning and starting back down the hall.  Over her shoulder, Morgan saw Cullen and Leliana smiling after them.  She was lead past Josephine’s office, and back out into the hall.  It was mostly servants present, with a few nobles conversing at the tables or in corners.

“Morgan!” Sera’s voice was loud and excited, drawing Morgan’s eye.  To the left of the dais, by the door that lead to one of the towers, Sera, Varric, Dorian, Vivienne, and the Iron Bull had gathered.  All of them were smiling to verying degrees, and Sera was practically bouncing up and down.  “Hurry up!” the younger woman called.

Still smiling, Josephine lead Morgan to the group, turning with a flourish of skirts to present Morgan with a key hung on a silver chain. “Your rooms, Inquisitor,” she said proudly.

The key was shiny and new, matching the burnished steel of the new door fittings. The metal was cool as she wrapped her fingers around it.  “My what?”

“We have been slaving away for _weeks_ to get this ready for you,” Dorian said.

“I took the liberty of decorating it, my dear,” Vivienne added, eyes slightly crinkled with her smile. “I took your tastes into account of course, but had to take some artistic license.”

Sera leaned forward cupping a hand around her mouth. “That means you better like it, or she’ll set you on fire!” she said in a loud whisper.  Vivienne’s withering glare did nothing.

“C’mon, Hooks, open it!” Varric’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he was smiling widely.

Morgan had the key in the lock before his words dawned on her. “Hooks?  What do you—?”

“’Cause yer always carrying yarn ‘n’ hooks around!” Sera giggled. “Bet you a gold sovereign you have at least one hook on ya now.”

“Well… you’d win that bet,” Morgan admitted with a half-smile, thinking of the crochet hook in the pouch on her belt.

“Also, once you get your hooks in something, you don’t let it go,” Varric said. “Kind of like a mabari.  I like that one better; more poetic.”  He waved a hand.  “Anyways!  Go on; we’ve been waiting ages to see the look on your face!  There might still be a little left behind from construction on the way up, though.”

The warmth of gratitude flooded through her, her chest expanding rather than tightening. Bull was smiling too, looking almost as excited as Sera.  Even Madame Vivienne’s expression had softened, a trace of eagerness visible in her eyes and the slight upturn of her mouth.  Turning back to the door, Morgan unlocked it, draping the long chain around her neck, the key hanging below her breasts.  Beyond the first door, there was a walkway set against the stone wall, a few boards piled in a corner.  At the far wall, the walkway became stairs going to the left, leading up to another door. 

As she climbed, she felt the others following a few feet behind. The second door opened with the new key as well, revealing stone steps this time.  Immediately visible beyond the steps were more stain glass windows.  The half-moon transom windows above them depicted phases of the moon, the doors below them made of colored glass and leading out onto a vast balcony.  As she crested the top of the steps, she saw another set of doors on the other side of a massive fireplace.  Gleaming above the mantle was the sword she had lifted at her coronation.

It was bigger than anything she had ever had, the ceilings towering above her. All Morgan could think about was how difficult it would be to dust up there.  There was a tapestry of obvious Free Marcher origin, showing a tall ship with billowing sails crashing through a storm, a monster looming up from beneath the waves.  A bed big enough for at least three dwarves sat against one wall, piled high with blankets and pillows.  To either side of the bed was a small table.  One had books, and one had several balls of yarn artfully arranged in a woven basket.

“Here!” Sera dashed across the stone floor—there were several large, plush carpets—and threw open the smaller of two wardrobes on the opposite wall.  The open space had been filled with shelves, yarn arranged by color in beautiful rows.  Morgan couldn’t help herself, rushing forward and reaching out a hand to feel the texture.  It was then she realized that all furniture except the bed was _dwarf_ sized.  Her eyes widened when she saw the desk, a masterwork of dark, redish brown wood polished to shining.

And the _books_!  The desk sat with the back of the chair to one of the room’s corners, packed bookshelves going low and long rather than high and narrow along the walls behind it.  There was an arch in the wall the bad sat against, and a peek through revealed a _massive_ stone tub, carved with several very familiar runes.  She even had her own privy.  She turned back, facing her friends, their images blurring as tears filled her eyes.  “It’s fucking gorgeous!” she whispered, not quite trusting her voice.

“You’re gonna have to make so many more hats!” Sera cackled.

She threw her arms around Morgan, and the dwarf tried her hardest not to cry; she knew that Sera didn’t hug just anyone. When the elf broke away, Morgan turned her attention to the mages.  “I assume I have the two of you to thank for the rune work?”

“Just Dorian actually,” Vivienne said, eyes looking around the rest of the room with a cool satisfaction.

“Madame Vivienne picked the books. She thought they’d make you laugh.”  Morgan was becoming more accustomed to Cole appearing and vanishing without a trace, but she jumped with the rest of him when he spoke from behind the group.  They all whirled, and found Cole standing in the middle of the room, a small clay pot in his hands. 

Before the former Grand Enchanter started throwing ice spikes, Morgan put herself between Cole in the others. “That was very thoughtful of her, Cole.  What do you ha—”  She stopped dead, staring at the plant that grew from the simple pot.  A long stalk was tied gently to a rigid stick stuck deep in the dark soil, two small buds hanging at the gently drooping end. 

“It’s an orchid,” Cole murmured, a small smile brightening up his light brown face. “Orchids make you happy.  They’re pretty and you like caring for things.”  He held it out to her, and she took it gently, bringing it close to her chest.  “The magic here will help it grow.  It would never have seen the mountains otherwise.”  That thought seemed to brighten him the most, but he vanished before Morgan could thank him.

Vivienne looked livid, and Bull shuddered. “Man, that kid’s creepy.”  He walked around, peering down at the plant in Morgan’s hands.  “Why’d he give you that?”

As much as she probably should have found the young man unsettling, Morgan couldn’t help but like him. “I used to keep orchids back home.  I had so many of them, but I had to give them away when I joined the Carta.  And I didn’t think they’d grow here.”  She traced one of the buds with a gentle finger, wandering over to the desk and setting the pot down gently. 

“We shall leave you to it, my dear,” Vivienne said tersely, her good mood soured by the spirit-boy.

Morgan turned back quickly. “Thank you all so much; it’s glorious!”  She meant every word, and made a point of dropping her mask and letting all her emotions show.  “I promise I’ll make all of you wonderful things from the yarn!”

“Don’t believe her for a second,” Varric joked as they filed towards the door. “It’ll be soft and cuddly but brighter than the sun.”  Despite that, he had worn his fuzzy red-gold hat all the way through the mountains.

“I believe those patterns you requested should arrive soon,” Josephine said, pausing at the stairs.

“Socks! Finally!”  Morgan’s chest tightened again, and she suddenly wanted them all to go, so she could be alone and try to get a handle on things.  She thanked them all again as they left, her smile genuine.  When they had finally all left, Morgan sagged against the door for a moment before going back up to the room.  There were intricate murals painted on the walls, but she didn’t have the energy to pay attention to them.  Kicking off her boots, she flopped onto the bed.  Hinter would still be out playing with the other dogs in the new kennels, so she felt no qualms about curling up under the blankets for a nap before dinner.  Everything smelled fresh and new, and she allowed herself just to enjoy it.  She would feel guilty about having so much while others had so little later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have headcannoned Cole as looking mixed-race, as his mother was Chasind, so that's why I describe him as brown.


	13. Still Waters

Still Waters:

 

All preparations for the trek to Crestwood were in place. The party was decided, the selected members notified.  Hawke had already left, and Morgan and the others would leave at dawn the next day.  The weight of coming events felt almost physical on her shoulders, but her mind was full of giddy joy.  She trotted up the stairs to the battlements, the sun painting the sky with deep orange and purple.  Clutched in both hands was a large, squat jar, the dark ceramic emblazoned with a red Qunari crest.  Shipments had started arriving as Skyhold became a pilgrimage, and the horn balm Morgan had requested ages ago had finally arrived.  There was a whole crate of the stuff in storage, too, but she couldn’t wait to deliver the first of it to Bull.

She found him where she’d hoped, leaning against the wall and watching the last of the arrivals trundle up to the bridge. When he turned to her, Morgan was positively _beaming_.  “Don’t tell me,” he said, turning to face her.  “That Corypheus asshole decided that we were too amazing and has surrendered.”

Morgan made a face. “No, we’re not that lucky.  But here.”  She thrust the jar out towards him, trying not to bounce on the balls her feet.

At first, Bull was confused, but when she adjusted her hands she revealed the seal, and his scarred face lit up. “Seriously?”  He took it from her carefully, pulling out the cork.  The powerful smell rose up to him, tingling in his nostrils and clearing his sinuses.  He gave a growling sigh of satisfaction, inhaling deeply.

“It’s really horn balm?” Morgan asked hesitantly. “It just smelled like really strong liniment to me, so I wasn’t sure.”  Looking up, Bull realized she was biting the edge of her bottom lip, looking worriedly between the jar and his face.

He let his smile show, not needing to wear an expression to convince her he was grateful; he truly was. “No, this is the real thing.  It’s made sort of like liniment, but with a few different ingredients.”  He recorked the jar.  “Thanks, Boss.  Really.”

Her eyes were unable to pull away from his mouth, the way the curve of his lips pulled at the scars around it, his eye slightly crinkled and shining. Morgan’s stomached dropped, heat shooting down her spine.  She could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks, and looked away.  “I’m glad,” she said, suddenly very aware of how close Bull was standing.  She could have reached out and touched him if she wanted to, traced the thick scars scattered over his bared torso with her fingers…  Maker, this was getting out of hand.

Either unaware or unfazed by her reaction, Bull took a step closer, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. She imagined that she could feel the warmth of his palm instantly through her shirt, a repressed shiver making the hair along her arms stand on end.  Looking up, her breath nearly caught in her throat.  He was even closer now, the smell of hot metal and oiled leather just barely noticeable.  Was he doing this on purpose?  He was a spy; he had to be seeing the effect his presence had on her.

“Thank you, Morgan,” he said again.

Maker, the sound of him saying her name, her actual fucking _name_!  It rolled off his tongue so easily, his subtle, nearly imperceptible accent adding something to it she had never noticed before.  Bull could have talked for hours and she would have been content to simply sit and listen.  She had to fight not to shudder, meeting his gaze resolutely, even as she felt the heat coloring her cheeks and twisting in her lower belly.  “You’re welcome, Bull.  I’m glad I found some.”  Her voice was soft and carefully measured, only catching once, when she realized that she wanted Bull to kiss her.

Her mind came to a screeching halt, and blanked. She wanted to kiss him, heart pounding and giddy just at the touch of his large hand on her shoulder.  Her left hand came up, touching the back of his where it rested.  It was hesitant at first, brushing over his knuckles before laying over the backs of his fingers, her own curling slightly around his.  He smiled at her, his thumb moving gently back and forth.  Morgan was just considering reaching up and dragging him down by his harness when the wall patrol came around the corner.

She leapt back like she’d been stung, clasping her hands tightly behind her back. Bull let her go, but his smile lingered.  “Thanks again,” he said.  “I owe you, Boss.  Let me know if I can help you with anything.”  He put no extra emphasis on the word, but somehow Morgan knew that he really did mean _anything_. 

 _‘I could have him if I wanted.’_ The realization was as striking as knowing she wanted to kiss him.  Her smile was shy and nervous.  “I’ll, um, keep that in mind,” she said, turning and giving one last look over her shoulder before she headed back to the stairs.

Bull watched her go with a smile. He’d been certain for a while, and suspected even longer.  That touch of hers had confirmed everything.  The attraction was mutual, too, though he suspected that she needed more than just a one-time roll in the hay.  Horn balm in hand, he headed back in the direction of the tavern and his room, still smiling.

 

000

 

Crestwood was nearly as bad as the Fallow Mire. Maybe even worse.  The constant, pissing downpour started two days before they arrived at the Inquisition camp.  By the time they arrived the soldiers had long ago abandoned traditional fire for what the mage stationed with them could provide.  The cool colored fire gave everything an eerie, unearthly sort of glow.  It didn’t help when Morgan learned that there was a Rift _in_ the lake.  Not only were there demons in the water now, but the Rift was right in the middle of where the first settlement of Crestwood—now termed plainly Old Crestwood—had been before a flood.  The Rift was sending hundreds of undead to the shores, and the mage soldier suspected it also had something to do with the abysmal weather.

Without time to spare, Morgan ordered the Inquisition camp moved into the heart of the town, adding the soldiers to Crestwood’s few civilian defenders. The rest were boarded up in their homes.  When they met a pair of Grey Wardens, Morgan thought it an extraordinary stroke of good luck.  At least until they said they had _no_ intent of staying to help the townspeople, and were very busy trying to capture Alistair Theirin.  Morgan hid her concern and wariness easily behind a respectful mask, bidding the Wardens farewell and leaving with the others to follow Marian Hawke’s trail.

It was a subtle thing, and none of them—even Bull—would have noticed the clues without Varric and Dorian. Though, Morgan supposed, coming from a family of outlaw apostates, Marian had had to learn from an early age to lay clever trails that only certain people would be able to follow.  Hawke had enchanted common stones and pebbles to fluoresce in magelight, which Dorian produced without much question upon Varric’s request.  Even then the trail was hard to follow, especially when they left the road and had to start climbing the hills.

Each hill seemed steeper than the last, littered with awkwardly placed boulders made slippery with soaked moss. The thick grasses hadn’t seen any grazing animals in a long time, and every member of the party fell at least twice, their hands and knees darkening with additional layers of wet and mud.  Scrambling up hill after hill left Morgan’s hip aching, and a few subtle shifts on Bull’s part told her that his ankle wasn’t faring much better.  She had also noticed a twinge in her forearm, likely brought on by the constant damp and the multiple healed breaks.  Nothing like rain-aggravated wounds to make one feel old.  Her right arm, broken in early childhood, ached as well, though not as badly.

Finally, they reached the top of the last hill, and were met by the dark expanse of a nearly sheer rock face, towering up into the fog and rain. There was a slightly darker spot extending up from the ground, and Varric stopped when he saw it.  He turned to Dorian.  “Sparkler, flash that light of yours four times quickly, let it shine for a count of three, then snuff it.”

The altus raised a brow, but beyond that said nothing, and did as he was asked. Another mage light lit in the dark spot, revealing a small cave mouth with a figure standing in it.  The light flickered twice, went out, then came back, and Varric smiled, despite the rain.  “Alright.  That’s her.  Let’s go.”

Hawke stepped back, ushering them inside. Bull came last, having to duck and turn to the side at the entrance.  The mage stiffened, eyes widening slightly.  “Oh.”

Morgan knew that the Champion had faced quite a few decidedly less friendly qunari in her time, but had already informed Hawke that Bull would be coming. “Told you he was big,” she said.  Before anyone could say anything else, Hinter ran in and shook himself, drenching everyone.  Hawke was instantly distracted.

“Oh goodness, you are _beautiful_!” she cooed at the big dog, offering her hands to sniff before she knelt to pet him.  Hinter gave her a lolling grin, leaning into her scratches.  “Are you a good dog?  Yes you are!"

Varric sighed and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Fereldens,” he grumbled.

Marian hugged the wet animal’s head to her chest, and his tail wagged faster. “Don’t listen to the mean grumpy dwarf,” she murmured, and Morgan couldn’t help but smile when the mage looked up.  “I’ve heard you had a mabari.  I wasn’t expecting one like this.”

“He’s a mutt,” Morgan said fondly. “Varric said you have a purebred?”

Grudgingly, Marian got back to her feet, giving Hinter one last pat. “Yes, Boomer.  She’s with Merrill, though.”

“Yes, I’m sure Daisy is having a lovely time getting drooled on and trampled,” Varric said, though there was a nostalgic sort of smile on his face.

“Anyway, we should get going,” Morgan said. “Are you aware that there are other Wardens hunting your friend?”

Hawke’s scowl bared her teeth. “Yes, I saw them, too.  They’ve been told he’s a traitor, and ordered to capture or kill him.”  She shook her head, hands flexing at her sides.  “Too many atrocities have been committed by good men following bad orders.”  For a moment, she looked her age, the shadows of the cave exaggerating the lines on her face, her expression dark and somber.  Then she shook her head, and the moment passed.  “Alright, let’s get going.”  She waved her hand, and torches sprung to life, illuminating a long, dry tunnel. 

The place had obviously been made by an ancient river, the walls worn nearly smooth. But humans had used it, and sconces were drilled into the rock, the occasional pile of rotted wood left over from where they had worked to widen the tunnel.  They passed a small hollow near the floor in time to see a nug scurry inside, Hinter sticking his nose in after.  The tunnel widened then, the torches placed closer together.  Hawke lit those as well.  Then the path turned sharply, and a _door_ was around the corner.  Someone had built a wooden wall across the tunnel, and fit a door inside it.

The wood was ancient, with a faded painting of a white skull on a black flag, a red cloth tied over the skull’s eyes. Hawke held up a hand, the other delving into a pouch at her belt.  She pulled out a blue glass marble, and Morgan thought she saw something silver painted on it before Hawke rolled it under the door.  For several long moments, the group stood in silence.  Then, a quiet shift in the space beyond the door, and a black and red marble rolled out.  Hawke bent and picked it up, smiling. 

“Alright, in we go.”

The space beyond was far better lit than the passage behind them, and showed obvious signs of being lived in; a bedroll on a pile of straw, tin flatware on a crate, books, lanterns, and a half empty sack of potatoes. At first, there was no one visible, Morgan and Hawke coming through first.  They took a few steps inside before the hair on the back of Morgan’s neck prickled, and she spun, drawing her daggers in the same motion.  Behind them, a figure stepped out from behind the remains of a wall, their blue and silver armor quickly catching the light.

“You look about as jumpy as I feel,” said a clearly Ferelden voice.

Alistair was not like the paintings and drawings that had been done of him. His skin was darker, his mouth wider, and his nose a bit more pointed.  His hair also had more of a red tinge compared to the golden blond it was so often depicted as.  But he was every bit as handsome as the stories had described him, though there were dark circles under his eyes, and lines around his mouth and on his brow.  The blue in his armor was dark with dirt, his boots caked in dried mud.  Despite his relaxed posture, he had his sword drawn, though the tip was pointed towards the ground.  He sheathed it in a smooth, practiced motion, stepping forward to hold out a hand.

Coming into the light, he got a proper look at Morgan as she shook his hand firmly, and his eyes widened slightly. “Maker’s breath…”  He looked her over again, eyes slightly narrowed.  When his gaze fell on Hinter, he broke into a smile.  “Leliana was right,” he chuckled, and Morgan could feel her cheeks turning pink.  “She sent a letter… Sorry, you just look so much like Brosca.  You even have the dog, and…”  His gaze shifted over the group, landing on Bull.  “And a Qunari.”  He blinked several times, mouth working silently.  “A very big qunari.” 

“The Iron Bull,” Bull said, holding out his own hand and winking. Though, with just one eye, it looked rather silly.  Alistair blushed and shook his hand.  “So you’re Alistair Theirin, huh?”

His cheeks slightly pink, Alistair chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to change my name,” he said ruefully.  “But yes, war, betrayal, darkspawn, all made for excellent stories at my expense, I’m sure.” He shook his head.  “But nobody cares about that any more. I answer to Warden-Commander Clarel, now, just like everyone else.”

Morgan _wanted_ to say that _she_ cared, that what he’d done would always matter.  But she could understand why he wouldn’t want to live in the shadow of the past forever.  “Aren’t the Wardens hunting you now?  Is Clarel not aware or…?”

Alistair’s expression soured. “Oh, she’s _aware_ , alright. _Her_ bloody orders.”

“Well, shit…” Morgan dragged a hand over her face, pushing back some wet hair that had fallen into her eyes.  “So… all of the Grey Wardens vanish, then some Darkspawn Magister asshole named Corypheus shows up.  I’m really hoping that it’s all a coincidence.”  She kept her eyes on his face, watching for any shift of moment that might give away something hidden.

But Alistair was as open with his expressions as a child, his anger and frustration plain. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it is.  When Hawke killed Corypheus, the Wardens thought the matter resolved.  He was as dead as could be, really, full of burns and arrows and stab wounds.  I wasn’t there myself, of course, but that’s what was in the report, and…”  He shook his head.  “Anyway.  Archdemons don’t die from simple injury.  With as… _unique_ a creature as Corypheus was, I feared he might have the same power.  So, I started looking into things.”

He started to pace, eyes down and not really seeing the room anymore. “There wasn’t much.  I found hints, but no proof.  But not long after, _all_ the Wardens in Orlais began to hear the Calling.” 

Morgan was just starting to formulate a response when Hawke stepped forward, bright eyes flashing. “Are you joking?  My little _brother_ is a Warden!  Why didn’t you _tell_ me?!”  Her voice had lowered to a growl, hands flexing at her sides.

Alistair’s face slipped through anger, sadness, and finally he just looked tired again. “It was a secret.  I was trying to keep at least _some_ of my oaths to the Wardens.”

“You’re telling me that my little brother thinks he’s dying?” Hawke’s hands were trembling fists now, eyes blazing a hole into the ground.  “Why didn’t _he_ tell me?” she whispered.

“I know a little about Wardens,” Morgan ventured. “But what’s ‘the Calling’?”

Alistair turned back, his handsome face so drawn and tired that he looked in dire need of a hot cup of tea and several hugs. “Well, Grey Wardens are tied to darkspawn.  We’re connected, somehow… and eventually… that connection, it… poisons you.”  He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, his gaze constantly shifting around the cave.  “There are always dreams, but with the Calling… they get _bad._ Then you start hearing the _music_.” 

His voice quieted, words stilted. “It… calls to you.  It starts out so quiet… So quiet you can think you’re imagining it.  But it gets… louder.  A _lot_ louder.  So loud you can’t bear it.”  He shrugged helplessly.  “At that point, you bid your friends farewell and go into the Deep Roads to die fighting.  Kill as many darkspawn as you can, die for the cause, you know; ‘In Death, Sacrifice’.”

“And every Warden in Orlais is hearing this?” Varric looked horrified.  “Shit…” 

Things were going from bad to worse. What if they all really _were_ dying?  What would the world do if all the Grey Wardens died?  What if another Blight was coming?  Through her gloves, Morgan’s palms began to sweat, and she reached out to put her hand on Hinter’s back, the subtle shift of his breath not nearly as comforting as it usually was.  Her other hand balled into a fist, fingers digging into the Mark until it crackled and buzzed.

“I thought the same thing,” Alistiar said. “I think Corypheus is responsible, somehow.  If all the Wardens die, who’s left to stop the next Blight?  That’s what has them so terrified.”  His words were an exact echo of Morgan’s thoughts.

“They’ll be desperate,” Dorian murmured, face drawn. “And desperate people often do foolish things.”  A shadow passed over his eyes, quickly enough to be missed by everyone but Morgan and Bull.

“That’ll be exactly what Corypheus wants,” Hawke spat, arms crossed over her chest now. “I’d bet money on it.”

“Wait, is the Calling they’re hearing _real_ , or is the bastard tricking them somehow?” Morgan asked.

Alistair shrugged helplessly. “I wish I knew.  Before this whole mess, I’d never even heard of him.  I didn’t even know he was supposed to be a Magister until I started really digging.  Before, he was just… some especially intelligent Darkspawn.”  He shifted his feet, taking a more solid stance.  “All that matters is that the Wardens are acting like they’re all going to die.”

Morgan bit the inside of her cheek _hard_ , her hand curling tight around one of the plates on Hinter’s armor.  The Mark crackled to match her anxiety, flaring bright enough to give off a subtle glow between her clenched fingers.  “How can he be doing this?”

“Corypheus is Darkspawn, so I think he’s using his connection to them, somehow.” Alistair was pacing again. 

He was probably hearing the Calling now, Morgan realized. Then all at once, she thought of Blackwall.  He was a Warden; why hadn’t he said anything?  If the Calling was as serious as Alistair was saying, surely Blackwall would have brought it up the moment it began?  When _had_ it begun?  Before he joined the Inquisition?  After?  Either way, he’d been keeping things from them, and the lie stuck in the back of Morgan’s throat like a sharp bone.  They’d have to talk.  Soon.  But Alistair was talking again.

“Like I said, Wardens are connected to the Darkspawn. I think Corypheus has figured out how to use that connection.”

Something must have dawned on Hawke, her eyebrows shooting up and mouth falling open. “The Wardens that had him imprisoned… he took their minds and forced them to release him.  Used my blood in some ritual to do it.  He must be doing the same thing now… making them hear the Calling.”  Her voice lowered, catching in her throat.  “Carver…”

Varric put a hand on his friend’s elbow, smiling while a pained expression lingered in his eyes. “Aveline took him far away.  They were doing fine, last I heard.”  Hawke tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

The conversation went on a while longer, and by the end of it, plans were made to head for the Western Approach, where Alistair had tracked a few Venetori, some Grey Wardens, and a Magister. Bull had grumbled at length about Magisters coming out of the woodwork like maggots, and Dorian had only given a single derisive sniff.  At least the two of them weren’t fighting.  It was the only good thing that came out of the meeting, and did nothing to lighten the mood as they climbed and slid back down the hill to Crestwood.

 

000

 

The sky had gone from a dark, lead gray to a nearly total blackness, torches hissing and guttering. An unused barn had been given for sleeping quarters, and while it smelled like damp straw, it kept out the rain.  Morgan hung her coat and armor on a hook next several loops of rotted rope, dropping down onto a crate to pull off her sodden boots.  By some miracle, her socks were still dry, and she vowed to give whoever had made her boots a significant pay raise.  The others filed in, all at equal levels of fed up and waterlogged. 

Hinter flopped down at her side with a heavy sigh, submitting limply as she removed his armor. Dorian started a fire in the center of the room, the green light casting long shadows and making everyone look twice as miserable.  There were piles of straw, and Morgan laid her bedroll out on one, though she doubted she would be able to sleep.  Everyone stripped off as many layers as they could, wringing out some and hanging the rest on every available surface to dry.  As aching and heavy as her body felt, Morgan’s mind continued to buzz, making sleep seem more and more unlikely.

They all ate in silence, chewing slowly on hardtack while Hinter ate his own rations. Leave it to Fereldens to feed their war dogs better than their soldiers.  Soon the air was filled with the smell of wet wool and leather as the magical fire leached the wet from their clothes.  Morgan swallowed the last bite hardtack with a gulp from her canteen, legs stretched out before her.  She stared ahead at nothing in particular, listening to the soft shift of metal and wood as Varric took apart and dried Bianca.

Eventually, Morgan’s thoughts returned to Blackwall. She wasn’t sure if she was distrusting him so quickly because of her training, his likeness to her father, or actual logic.  Maybe it was just because the Wardens in _Orlais_ were effected?  Or because it had something to do with their proximity to Corypheus?  But Blackwall had been in Haven when the Magister appeared with his army…  Morgan hissed in pain as her teeth cut into the inside of her cheek.  The taste of blood did nothing to improve her mood, and she crossed her arms over her chest, glaring into the fire.

Varric took first watch, and Dorian laid out his bedroll in what had probably been a stall for horses once. Morgan wasn’t ready to sleep, and Bull showed no signs of moving either.  The silence stretched between them, the fire oddly soundless.  There were no crickets outside, or frogs, or _anything_ making noise except for the dwarf, the qunari, and the dog.  Morgan could hear Bull’s slow, even breathing, Hinter’s having a longer pause between each breath.  Listening to Bull, she found her own breathing falling into synch with his, slow and deep.  Though sleep still seemed far off, Morgan felt some of her tension ease.

“Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better, aren’t they, Bull?” she sighed.

His horns dragged briefly against the wood behind him as he shifted. “Probably.  That’s usually how all the stories go.”

“Oh, fuck,” she groaned, then laughed. She caught his curious look in the dark.  “If we somehow manage to pull all this off, people are going to write stories about _us_.”

“If Varric isn’t already,” Bull pointed out. “Granted, his fight scenes aren’t realistic.”

“Bull, no one wants to know about how people shit themselves when they die, or how long it _really_ takes to die from being stabbed in the gut.”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked over at her, her profile painted in deep shadow and bright pale light.  But he didn’t need proper lighting to know how tired and worried she was feeling, her keen eyes could see it as plain as day.   “You need to stop thinking about Blackwall, Boss.  Nothing we can do until we get back.”

“Glad I’m not the only one,” Morgan muttered. She dragged a hand over her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes.  “I’ll try, but no promises.”  She offered him a smile, and thought she saw him smiling back.  “The further we get into this mess, the more I’m sure that Gods are involved.”

“God _s_?” Bull questioned.  “Thought you worshiped the Maker?”

“Psh, no. I mean… he _might_ exist?”  It took effort not to start chewing on the inside of her cheek again.  “If Corypheus is one of the Magisters that cracked the Golden City, and _he’s_ real, then I guess the Maker might be, too.”  She shook her head.  “But if he is, that means that the stories about the Elvhen Pantheon should be just as credible, at least in theory.  And there’s so much fuckery going on I wouldn’t find it hard to believe it was the Maker and the Elvhen gods having a pissing match.”

Bull laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’ve got a unique view on things, Boss,” he said.

She could feel his fond smile in the dark, and was glad for the shadow, her cheeks warming. He was so close, easily within reach.  Had he always sat that close to her, and was she just noticing it now?  If it had, how could she not have noticed?  People standing close to her usually made her nervous; you only had to be within arm’s reach to slice someone’s throat.  No, she decided.  With as paranoid and untrusting as she had been before, she’d have noticed if Bull had been this close. 

That just posed another question; why was he suddenly sitting closer? It wasn’t just sitting either.  He walked closer to her, able to reach out and put his hand on her shoulder at any moment.  He was always nearby in a fight, too.  Was he trying to be a better bodyguard, now that the enemy had shown himself?  Or was it something else?  Their conversation on the wall walk came back with startling clarity.  Again, she could feel the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder, and see his grateful smile, fully illuminated in the sun.  And the kiss at the Temple…  She remembered that, too, the way he swung her up into his arms, fingers sliding through her hair…

Morgan pinched the torn flesh of her cheek between her teeth again, the pain shocking her out of the lingering thoughts. She’d been attracted to a person before, and had been in love before.  The draw that Bull had… it was something else entirely, and her lack of understanding was infuriating.  She didn’t _like_ not knowing, especially when it came to her own feelings.  She knew better than most just how important it was to understand one’s own feelings and emotions. 

Bull... He drew on something in her.  Something in his nature just… _called_ to her, drawing her in as helplessly as a moth to a candle.  He was so at home with who he was, with his flaws and shortcomings.  He never seemed to worry about anyone’s morals but his own, living his life as fully and as wildly as he could, so at odds from what she expected of a qunari still living—however far removed—under the Qun.  She knew that there could be layers underneath, at odds with the easygoing exterior.  But he had such control, wielding his considerable power with the utmost precision.

To imagine that power under her hands, to touch and hold it as she pleased, to have it touch _her_ …  Maker, she wanted him.  She wanted him so fucking badly.  A shiver rolled down her spine, and she drew her legs in, folding them under her and adjusting the blanket around her shoulders.  Now was hardly the time.  An army of demons could be taking root in the Western Approach, and there she was thinking about how badly she wanted to bed her bodyguard.  She should just go to bed and put the thoughts out of her mind for the foreseeable future.

Instead, she asked, “you not sleepy either?”

Bull stretched his legs out in front of him, the shift of his torso suggesting a vague shrugging motion. “Not really.  Glad not to be climbing slippery hills anymore, though.”

“Yes,” Morgan agreed. Then her mouth kept moving, without her permission.  “Slippery is much more fun on a pair of quivering thighs.”

Bull, who had apparently been in the middle of drinking from his canteen, snorted in laughter and instantly started coughing. Morgan stifled her own giggles with one hand, the other reaching up to pound Bull on the back.  When the water finally cleared from his lungs he muffled more laughter behind one big hand, his eye watering.  “I occasionally forget that you may have slept with just as many women as I have, Boss,” he finally said, voice still slightly tight.

Morgan snorted, withdrawing her hand from his back. “You have a generous overestimation of my charms,” she said, sitting back.

“Well, maybe not lately. You’re busy saving the world and shit.”  Morgan didn’t need light to know that Bull was giving his best shit-eating grin.  “Being a ‘Chosen One’ is pretty attractive, you know.”  He was probably waggling his eyebrows at her.

“That’s…” Morgan trailed off, then shrugged helplessly.  “Well, I can’t say you’re _wrong_.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Boss, you really _should._ Dorian’s right.”

Morgan’s head snapped up, back going rigid. “Dorian?  What did he say?”  If the mage had run his mouth about her attraction to Bull, she was going to make sure he woke up in a pile of manure!

“Just that you’re wound tighter than a spring,” Bull said with a casual shrug, giving away nothing.

“And you’re of the opinion that I need a Tamassran to… how did you put it? ‘Pop my cork’?” Morgan said, recalling a conversation in Haven.

“I mean, there’s the occasional Tamassran that goes Tal-Vashoth, but I can’t say I know of any around here.” Another shrug from Bull. “There’s plenty of other folks that’d happily help you out, though.”  Morgan snorted, and Bull paused, tilting his head, trying to get a better look at her.  He was quiet for a long time, thinking.  “Do you really not notice, Boss?  I find it hard to believe someone as observant as you hasn’t noticed all the looks in your direction.”

Morgan hunched her shoulders. “At least half of that is because a dwarf is a curiosity.  And half of _those_ think that any non-human woman will be an easy lay.  I don’t want any part of people giving _those_ looks.”

The furrow between his eyes deepened, a frown starting to pull at his mouth. “Well, yeah, there are gonna be some of those.  Fuck, do you have any idea how many people want to fuck me just because I’m a qunari?  But… do you really not see the others?”  He sounded so genuinely curious that Morgan looked over at him, her own brows drawn together. 

He kept talking. “People look at you—the ones that don’t know you’re the Inquisitor—and they see a warrior.  You don’t wear shiny gold armor like Orlesian nobles; yours is dirty, beat up, _real_.  You’re strong, and you’ve got these sharp eyes that just sort of… I dunno, light up… when you smile.  I’ve seen plenty of people on the road—merchants, mercenaries, refugees—that left your company with a dreamy smile.  Plenty at Haven and Skyhold, too.”

Morgan ducked her head almost instantly, shying away from his words. “Bull…”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to push,” he said, leaning back and going quiet.

They sat in silence for a long time. Hinter began snoring softly where he slept.  “I _do_ see the other looks,” she began.  “But in my experience, those love-struck looks just end in heartbreak.  Sex is fine.  But when they look at me like that, like they want something _more_...”  She took a long, shuddering breath, swallowing hard.  “My last real girlfriend was another student who’d joined the Carta around the same time as me.  We were together for three years… and then she tried to kill me.”  The last words came out as whisper.

“Shit.” He felt the urge to reach out and put his hand on her shoulder, but kept it where it rested on his knee.  “That’s… immensely shitty.”

She wanted to regret sharing that fact with Bull, but at this point, he knew her nearly as well as Asala and Sh’vara, maybe even better. Her laugh was dry and bitter.  “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“So romantic relationships…”

“Are _not_ my thing, no.”

More silence, but not entirely uncomfortable. “So you don’t want some starry-eyed youth enthralled with you as the Herald or the Inquisitor,” Bull said.  “More like…”

“A soldier who’ll just bend me over the nearest piece of furniture. Or let me bend _them_.  Depends on their parts.”

“Don’t meet many non-qunari who aren’t hung up on gender,” Bull remarked. When she looked confused, he added, “most people automatically assign gender by what a person has in their pants; automatically say ‘men’ and ‘women’.”

The quick change of subject made her smile. “You can thank Mum for that,” Morgan said, smiling fondly.  “One of my earliest memories is of her explaining that I could marry a man if I wanted, or a woman if I wanted—or no one—and that any one was okay.”

“Sounds like a smart lady.”

“You’d like her; she trained as a pastry chef for a while,” Morgan said slyly. She had noticed that Bull took special joy from anything sweet or sugary.  “She makes the _best_ pies!” Her tension began to ease.  “The apple is my favorite!  She uses spirits in the crust so that when she bakes it they evaporate and make it super crispy…” 

“You sure you don’t want to bring her to Skyhold?” Bull said teasingly. “Could always use more pies.”

The smile faded. “She _wants_ to…” she murmured.

“But _you_ don’t want her to.”  It wasn’t a question.

“She’s… delicate. Not physically.”  Her words were quiet and halting.  “She’s… like me.  But worse.  Father would’ve had her shipped to the madhouse if _her_ father hadn’t intervened.  Where she is now… I’ve got her help, and she’s stable.  I don’t want to uproot her from that…  Even if she would be happier being closer to me…”  She hugged her legs up against her chest, resting her chin on her knees. 

“You’re the Inquisitor,” Bull said, putting a dramatic and mocking emphasis on the title, “you could pay the people more than enough to move with her.” She looked at him curiously.  “I’ve seen you read a couple of her letters.”  He shifted away, intending to pull back into the shadow.  Morgan’s keen night vision still caught him rubbing the back of his neck.  “You look sad by the end of every letter; it’s pretty obvious how much you miss her.”

A half smile curled the corner of her mouth. “Do you miss your Tamassran?” she asked.  “I know it’s not _quite_ the same thing, but…”

“Sometimes,” Bull admitted.

“Do qunari ever see their Tamassrans again? Like, after they’ve grown up?”

“You writing a book?” She caught the quick sideways glance.

“They’re your people, Bull,” Morgan said. “I feel like I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, but, well… I’ll admit I’m very curious, but I want…”  Her cheeks flushed, her words becoming stilted again.  “I want to know you _better_.  If I’m overstepping—”

Bull rubbed a hand over his face, hiding his smile. “Nah, it’s fine.  Scoot over, though, this crate is really fucking uncomfortable.”  Extricating her feet from under Hinter’s warm belly, Morgan scooted over to the right, making room for Bull on the end of her bedroll.  He shifted over with a quiet grunt.  “Ah, that’s better.  Now, what was the question?”

“Do qunari interact with their Tamassrans after they grow up?” Morgan asked again.

“Some do more than others. Like if they become a Tamassran themselves.  If you’re military, it’d be rare, but laborers and the like might.”

“Have you?”

“Just once, when I came back from Seheron.” There was no edge to his voice.  There was _no_ emotion at all. 

Instantly, Morgan recognized a weighty, personal subject. “What was she like?  Your Tamassran?” she said quickly.

“She was really great at stories,” Bull said, speaking the first thought that came to mind. “She could do different voices for everyone, and she was really good at it.  She did this one where she pretended to be the dragon, and all the kids had to wrestle her into submission…”  He smiled a little.  “At least that’s how I remember it.  I used to think she was so tall.  Then one day I turn around and she has to crane her neck to look up at me.”  There was a wistful tone to his voice now, and Morgan smiled.

“Do you know how hard it is to imagine you as anything but this…” she made a vague gesture at all of him, “giant, mountainous, slab of a person that you are?”

“I’m pretty picturesque, huh?” Bull said, nudging her with his elbow. She hid a giggle behind her hand.  “Yeah, I’ve always been pretty big, even as a kid.  I was clumsy as fuck, too.”

Morgan thought about Bull, about the careful way he moved, always aware of his size and strength. The way he timed the huge swings of his axe, muscles working to exert supreme control.  She found it hard to imagine that he hadn’t always been that way.  “That’s a little hard to imagine, too.”

His laugh was rueful. “Yeah.”  He didn’t expand on it, and Morgan didn’t press. 

They were close enough now that she really _could_ feel the heat of his body, her blanket having slipped down to the crook of her arm.  Only a few inches separated them, her knee just barely brushing the side of his thigh.  She took a slow breath, then shifted, closing her eyes as she let herself lean against him, his skin a comforting warmth against her cheek.  While the rest of her relaxed, her heart pounded like a drum, threatening to break out of her chest.  Bull’s arm shifted, and for a moment she was afraid that he was going to push her away.  But his arm just moved to settle over her shoulders, pulling her a little closer without saying a word. 

Questions surged through her head, burning away the haze of worries about Wardens, Darkspawn, and demons. Did this mean something?  Was he actually enjoying the contact or was he just humoring her?  Would he make assumptions about what she wanted?  No, he wouldn’t.  He didn’t ask questions, didn’t guess at her intentions.  He just accepted the action for what it was, embracing and welcoming it.  Morgan tried to think of any other man that would let a woman lean against him, let him put his arm around her, and not expect that she wanted something more.  There were none, and she smiled, eyes closing again.

Letting out a breath, her body sagged, leaning into Bull. For all that he was made almost entirely of hard muscle, he was not uncomfortable to lean against.  She felt Hinter climb onto the bedroll on her other side, turning in a circle twice before he lay down with a sigh.  Morgan shifted, uncrossing her legs to lay them together, pointing away from Bull, and letting her lean more comfortably.  He let her get comfortable before he brought his left leg up, using his free hand to undo his ankle brace.  Then he stretched his legs out before him again, chest swelling as he took a deep breath, the exhale coming out as a peaceful sigh.

A different sort of warmth spread through her as sleep began to take hold. Bull was so kind.  Such a hard, powerful man, but still more than capable of softness.  Life had left him battered and scarred, but he hadn’t lost his ability to enjoy, to just relax and let life continue on.  And he was her friend.  In the Carta, power was the end-all, be-all.  There was no room for kindness or friends.  No room for pretty Orlesian cakes and sweet, creamy liqueurs.  But Bull… Bull made room for it all, hedonistic and unrepentant.  Even if everything went to shit in the end, she would still be blessed to have known such a man.

 

000

 

The morning dawned just as rainy and dreary as the night, though Morgan felt a bit less soggy now that her clothes and armor were mostly dry. Despite the pressing issues in the Western Approach, she was not about to leave the people of Crestwood at the mercy of the undead.  More than half the people were still locked in their own homes, too terrified to come out, even for food.  She was the only one that could seal Rifts, and it was her duty to see this one closed as well.

After speaking with the mayor, she was overjoyed to discover that they would _not_ , in fact, have to go swimming in said lake.  It could be drained, provided the Inquisition could clear the bandits out of the fortress that housed the mechanisms. That part was easy; they were all used to fighting bandits by that point.  The hard point came after the water was drained away from Old Crestwood. 

It was full of corpses, picked clean by fish years ago. The muck of the place stank of rotting wood and fish, the footing slippery and treacherous.  Even the fish flopping in the old town square couldn’t break the solemn mood.  They met a spirit in Old Crestwood as well, naming themselves a Spirt of Command.  Dorian was fascinated to find such a clear manifestation in the physical world, completely unaltered by it.  Command remarked on Morgan’s Mark, seeming curious for a brief moment before returning to ordering the rocks to move. 

Despite it looking like an orange, vaguely person-shaped wisp of colored light, Morgan wanted to help the spirit return to their own plane of existence. She wouldn’t want them turned to a demon if she could do something to prevent it.  So she agreed to destroy the rage demon that had harried Command upon their arrival in the physical world.  Dorian smiled at her, and Bull, while not at all happy about speaking to a spirit, seemed to approve as well.  Varric just shrugged, and said he’d seen and done stranger. 

He began complaining the moment they entered the caves. Morgan did a bit better with them, long used to using underground tunnels to smuggle lyrium and other goods.  The cave system looked to have been a natural formation that had been expanded on by humans.  There was actually a decent amount of stormheart ore to be found.  It got a lot stranger when they found evidence that the caves had been _inhabited_ at the time they were flooded.  They battled undead in areas where the remains of families were found, their belongings destroyed by the water and time. 

Sheathing her daggers, Morgan knelt, using a gloved finger to poke through a pile of things that might have been in a chest once, judging by the swollen, half rotted planks of wood surrounding it. “These people had been traveling,” she murmured.

“Probably fleeing the Blight,” Varric said, nudging a similar pile with his boot. “At least if the Mayor’s timeline is right.  He strike anyone else as nervous?”

Morgan snorted. “Very.  Felt like he didn’t _want_ us to clear out the bandits, too.”

“Definitely hiding something,” Bull agreed.

“You do surround yourself with suspicious people, don’t you, Morgan?” Dorian remarked, not touching anything. Why he favored light colored robes and armor, Morgan would never understand. 

“Like attracts like, I suppose,” she said, straightening. “I’d really like to know why people were living down _here_ when there was definitely a decent sized boarding house in town.”

Dorian crossed his arms, frowning. “If these people were refugees fleeing the Blight, then the townspeople at the time probably feared infection.  They wouldn’t want to risk their own for these strangers.”

“I hate people,” Morgan muttered. “I mean, I understand it, but I still hate people.”

“Yeah,” Varric sighed. “C’mon, let’s find this stupid fucking Rift and get the hell out of here.  Gives me the creeps.”

“ _All_ caves give you the creeps, Varric,” Morgan pointed out.  “Though, this one _definitely_ creepy.”

They found the rage demon before they found the Rift, a giant creature that had everyone sweating in their armor within moments of engaging it. Morgan thanked Andraste for Dorian, his frost spells weakening the demon enough for her and Bull to cut into, and Varric for putting so many bolts in its eyes—those were its eyes, right?—that it was clawing at its face almost as much as it tried to claw at them.

When they _did_ find the Rift, it was bigger than any of the others that they had come across.  Demons swarmed the underground chamber, their screams and roars echoing off the high stone ceilings.  With the sheer number of them, none of the party left uninjured.  By the time all the demons were dead and the Rift was closed, Morgan’s nose was broken and at least one rib was cracked.  Bull’s lip was split and there was a long, bloody set of claw marks down his back.  Varric’s knee had been dislocated, and one wrist badly sprained.  Dorian’s right eye was swollen shut, and had a vicious red burn on his left shoulder.  Hinter was missing a piece of his ear, and his tail was broken in two places.

But they were all alive, and able to leave the caves with minimal limping and groaning. When they emerged, they found that the rain had stopped, and that the sun was shining.  After hours deep below ground, they were all blinking and swearing for the first few moments.  When they returned to Crestwood, people were starting to peek out of their homes, and the Inquisition soldiers reported that no undead had been seen in hours.  As they climbed the steps, headed back to the Mayor’s house, they heard people talking.  The Mayor had left on horseback the moment the weather began to clear.  He had gone without a word to anyone, and left nearly all of his belongings.  When they finally got to his house, they found out why.

“He caused the flood,” Morgan said, staring blankly at the note in her hands. “He drowned them.” 

Logically, she understood. He’d been trying to save those that were still healthy, to prevent the spread of the Blight.  But he had still herded the frightened, sick people into the caves and _drowned_ them.  Her fingers clenched around the edge of the note, the paper crinkling.  She stopped herself short of tearing it; it was evidence, and they would need it.  She smoothed the paper out on the desk, then tucked it back into one of the drawers.  They locked and barred the door as they left.

“We need to send a raven to Leliana,” she said stiffly as they walked back to camp. “He’ll have to make stops for supplies.  She can probably find him that way.”  Her mask was on again, perfectly smooth and carefully emotionless.  She’d probably be amazing at Wicked Grace.  But Bull knew that she only looked like _that_ when she was really angry.  With how easily she expressed her anger, it wasn’t an expression anyone saw often.  That just made it all the more important to recognize.  Bull trailed silently behind her as they returned to camp, the sun starting to set.  The mists had burned off during the day, but the temperature was dropping again as the light faded. 

There was a small crowd waiting for them when they arrived, and Bull watched Morgan’s face melt into a regal smile, so clean and believable that she had to have been practicing in a mirror. Despite most of the people being taller than her, she still seemed the biggest person there, smiling kindly and shaking every hand extended to her.  Bull kept back, playing the part of the silent, brooding mercenary.  He got a few looks, but no one approached him. Instead, he watched Morgan as she moved through the crowd.

Her smile never wavered, genuine for a moment when a small boy with big ears and freckles handed her a small bouquet of wildflowers, dirt still clinging to some of the roots. She also graciously accepted a basket from a woman in an apron and flour dusted skirts.  That went on for some time, everyone wanting to say that they had shaken hands and spoken with the Inquisitor.  When the stars began to emerge, she smiled and gave a gentle farewell, bowing out and returning to the barn.

She went to her bedroll, Hinter dropping down with a quiet groan. After stripping off her own armor, she set about going over her canine friend, cleaning his wounds and brushing his fur.  She murmured quietly to him as she brushed the dirt and mud from him, only earning a complaint when she drew near his tail.  But after a few gentle words, he let her set the break with only a quick yelp, putting his head in her lap as she scratched under his collar.  The others joined her, bringing with them cold sausages and some boiled potatoes.  Morgan ate in silence, Hinter getting his own share of the meal.

Morgan felt so empty, her emotions so tattered and torn that she had nothing left to feel. She said nothing to the others, listening to the sounds of their voices but not really hearing what they were saying.  A bone-deep weariness gripped her, and she kicked off her boots before crawling into her bedroll, one arm draped over Hinter.   The others soon did the same, a proper fire set in a circle of stones filling the barn with the crackle of flames and dancing shadows.  The sound was comforting, and so was the smell of Varric’s tobacco once he lit his pipe.  Dorian might have made some snide comment about it, but she couldn’t be sure.  It just ended in laughter, and she was able to smile a little.  She fell asleep wondering what the desert would be like.

 

000

 

When Morgan woke, it was still dark outside, and the only empty bedroll was Varric’s. For a while, she closed her eyes and attempted to go back to sleep.  But her body seemed convinced that she’d had enough, and she crawled from her bedroll.  Putting on her boots and coat, she wandered outside, following the scent of pipe spoke past the camp with soldiers still on lookout.  She found Varric on the other side of the barn, pipe in hand and head turned towards the stars.  There were a few clouds left, but they were nothing compared to how gray the sky had been when they had first arrived.

“You on watch?” Morgan asked when he looked her way.

“Nah. Couldn’t sleep.” The words were accompanied by soft plumes of smoke. 

Morgan leaned against the wall beside him. “Same here.”  Silence stretched for a few moments.  “Did Cassandra find you before we left?”

“No, she did _not_ ,” Varric said with a sigh.  “I am _not_ looking forward to _that_ reunion.”  His face fell.  “Maybe I should’ve—”

“No,” Morgan cut in sharply. “You were protecting your family.  And from what I’ve heard, you hardly had any reason to trust someone with such close ties to the Chantry.”

The other dwarf gave her a considering look. “Family, huh?”  He chuckled and shook his head.  “Yeah, I guess so.  But really… you’re not mad?  Not even a little annoyed?”

“Varric, I would break the noses of _anyone_ that threatened someone I cared about,” Morgan said plainly.  “You wanting to protect Hawke doesn’t bother me at all. Cassandra, on the other hand…”  She shrugged.

He smiled at her. “That’s not common attitude for Carta.  There’s Clan loyalty, sure, but everything is pretty cutthroat.”  A pause, then he added, “at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“For those students that show promise as an assassin, they’re tasked with killing one of their fellow students,” Morgan told him as she stared at the ground. “Preferably one they’re close to.  If they don’t complete the mission, they’re failed and have to leave.”  She could feel Varric staring at her, and crossed her arms over her chest, half wrapping them around herself.  He had to have known stuff like that right?  If rumors were to be believed, he had a finger in nearly every pie in the Free Marches.  The silence dragged, and her shoulders hunched, regret creeping in.

“Andraste’s freckled ass,” Varric finally muttered, and Morgan couldn’t help but laugh. “Look, I’ve heard rumors, and made my own guesses, but I’d really like to ask you a few questions,” he said.

She sighed. “About the Carta?”

 “Yeah.  If you don’t mind.”  He held his palms out before him, pipe pinched between thumb and forefinger.  “You don’t gotta answer if you don’t want to, though.  You just really don’t seem like the type to go for that sort of work.”  Morgan turned to face Varric, meeting his eyes and searching his face, her brows slightly furrowed.  He scratched the tip of his nose. 

“This is for your story, isn’t it?” Morgan finally said. “You’re writing about…” she waved a hand around them, at the barn and the camp, “about all this.”

He shrugged. “Well, yeah.  Makes it easier to wrap my head around all the impossible feats you keep pulling off.  Plus, people are gonna wanna know how everything went down.  That’s assuming we don’t all die, though.”

Looking away, Morgan went back to leaning against the wall. She thought about her favorite book of Varric’s, the ‘Tale of the Champion’.  While there had indeed been a great deal of improbable swashbuckling, there had been a great deal of attention paid to each ‘character’; their personality, their motivations, their flaws and strengths…  She decided that she could do worse than to have her biography written by Varric Tethras.

“You’re right, actually,” she said. “About me not really fitting with the usual sort that go with the Carta.”  She exhaled through her nose and winced, gingerly touching the now crooked bridge.  “You’ve probably found out—either from searching through Leliana’s letters, or by your own informants—that I was born Morgan Laton.”

“Father was a blacksmith, right?”

Morgan nodded. “Yup.  Damn good one, too.  Great artist… shitty father.  We… disagreed.  I couldn’t find work as a smith, and needed to support Mum. _She’s_ Cadash by birth.  They offered to house and feed her if I came to work for them.  I had no love for my Father’s family, so I took the Cadash name.  I was good with people.  They said they could use that.” 

“You make it all sound so simple,” Varric said with a knowing, and slightly sad expression. He already had a picture of Morgan before the Carta in his head.  A bright, kind-hearted young woman, full of sass and snark but always willing to lend a hand.  But the Carta wasn’t the place for that sort of person.  It was a miracle that she’d survived.

The corner of Morgan’s mouth twitched. “If only, right?”  She laughed softly.  Her life _had_ been simple for a long time.  Once she got good at her job, it was easy.  Smile, speak in metaphors and innuendo, and convince people that she was completely harmless.  Completely simple.  Then the mages rebelled, and Morgan was sent to spy on the Conclave.  Simple had ended the moment she set foot on Ferelden shores.  And after…

After. She didn’t like thinking about after.  After meant that she’d have to survive it all.  And as hard as she would fight, she knew that she didn’t expect to survive.  Morgan would give her all to close the Rifts, to find Corypheus and end his madness.  But when it came down to it, Morgan believed that it would be the end of her.  The Mark was a constant pain now.  Nothing bad, just a small ache the clung to her bones, made her crochet just a little more tiresome.  It was worse than it had been at first.

She shook her head. Such thoughts were useless, and Varric was staring again.  “Were you listening the other night?  When I was talking with Bull?”  He coughed on a lungful of smoke, and she smirked.  “Figured as much.  Can’t say I blame you.  You wanna ask about that, right?”

Varric thumped his fist against his chest, coughing a few more times. “Shit, Hooks, you don’t waste time, do you?”

Morgan offered a weak smile. She liked Varric, a lot.  He felt a bit like a kindred spirit, like she could share anything with him, and he’d just wince and swear and offer to buy her a drink.  He was one of the few people that had asked if she was alright in the beginning, and had genuinely seemed to care.  He seen so many horrible, impossible, wonderful things, and was still sticking around.  Before, she had simply thought it to be the usual dwarf stubbornness, or him just wanting to stick around and bother Cassandra.

But as she traveled with him, fought with him, drank with him, she realized that he really was truly noble under all the snark and illegal activity. He had a fucking heart of gold, and cared deeply for those he knew well enough to let in.  She’d seen him speaking to terrified widows, and telling stories to children.  He’d kept morale up while they searched for Skyhold, telling stories every night.  Sometimes old tales, other times stories about fighting with Hawke or the Herald of Andraste.

She was staring to trust him, she realized. She was starting to trust a lot of people.  Not fully, not like Bull.  But Varric was damn fucking close.  “You can ask three questions, Mr. Tethras.  Then I’m going back to bed.”

 


	14. Burdens of Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off we go to war. Also, some very NSFW stuff towards the end of the chapter! ENJOY!

Burdens of Command:

 

Bull saw the funeral procession, heard Mother Giselle speaking in her regal, comforting way. And then he’d seen the smoke of the pyre.  Word around the castle was that an old woman had died.  Not a soldier, not a scholar, not anyone special.  Just an old, Ferelden woman.  Then he saw Morgan coming away from the growing pillar of smoke, face drawn and empty and eyes red.  While he was down near the Herald’s Rest, he saw the small brunette standing with her back to Skyhold, arms tight and her sides and fists clenched as she looked out into the mountains. 

Morgan braced her hands on the worn rock of the battlements, a flag snapping somewhere off to her left. The chatter of the castle lingered at the back of her mind, something she would normally be listening to the tone of.  Guards passed her with a brief and very official greeting, but she ignored them, listening to their steps fade into the distance.  Her view of the mountains started to blur, eyes stinging with hot tears.  She clenched her jaw until her teeth began to creak, and then she bit the inside of her cheek.

Bull could only _just_ count the amount of times he’d snuck up on Morgan on both hands.  She could never consciously turn it off, as far as he knew.  She’d just… forget, every now and then.  He made a decent amount of noise as he approached, but she still jumped when he leaned against the parapet beside her.  “Sorry, Boss,” he said quietly.  Despite the magical warmth of the fortress’s interior, he could still feel the biting icy wind of the mountains, and he couldn’t tell if Morgan’s cheeks and nose were red from the cold, or from crying.  But her eyelashes were spiked wetly together, and the dark circles under her eyes were puffy.

“You oversaw the ceremony personally?” he asked.

Morgan knew she’d start crying if she looked over at Bull, so she continued to stare resolutely ahead, practically unblinking. “Yes,” she said, hating the thickness of her voice and resisting the urge to sniffle.

“Someone I know?” He knew that it didn’t matter if Morgan knew the deceased; she could only watch so many people die in the course of the Inquisition, and couldn’t be expected to bear them _all_ in silence.

The intake of breath shuddered more than Morgan would have liked, but Bull had seen her at her lowest points almost since the beginning. “You met her,” she murmured.  “In the Hinterlands, the night I got this.”  She tapped the warped, hand-shaped scar on her neck.  “Yarrow.  The old woman who knew how to strip fur and feathers from game with a spell.”  Her voice caught, and her nails bit into her palms.  “She’d _just_ made it here, Bull.  She wanted to see _me_.”

Knowing the tears were coming, Bull took a step closer, his boot barely an inch away from hers. “She get to?”

The sob made an ugly, half choked sound, and Morgan shook her head. “They couldn’t find me,” she whispered, fighting the shake of the sobs beginning in her shoulders.  “I was hiding… in the aviary…  I didn’t think…  She died wanting to see me, and I was off being selfish.”  The wind chilled her hot tears almost instantly, but her cheeks burned with shame.  She could feel Bull’s warmth at her side, and knew that if he touched her, she wouldn’t be able to hold on; she wouldn’t be able to fight the tears any more.  Bull knew that, too.

“Hey,” he murmured, putting his hand on her opposite shoulder, and trying not to think about how small she felt. Her shaking got worse.  “She saw the castle.  She saw that you brought everyone here, that they were safe.”

They were both aware that there was much worse on the horizon. They had just returned from the Western Approach, and were preparing for the march to the Adamant Fortress.  Morgan knew more soldiers would die, more people would die to help her further her quest.  She took down their names and then folded them away, letting their deaths wash over and behind her, but never completely away.  But _this_ one; this old woman she’d met _once_ , caught at her as surely as a Terror’s talons, and it hurt.  Maker, it _hurt_.

The hand resting gently on her shoulder became an equally gentle tug. She let herself fall against his hip, breathing in his hot metal musk with a shuddering breath.  He squeezed her shoulder softly, and the tears began falling in earnest.  He didn’t give a speech about the frailty of life, of how all things would someday pass and die.  Morgan knew all that; she didn’t need to be told.  Bull wanted to give his friend what she needed, and what she needed was comfort.  He’d have hugged her if she’d been taller, and if it wouldn’t have just smashed her jaw into his belt buckle.

Morgan lifted her own hand to catch on Bull’s, and wove her short fingers with his much larger ones. He curled his fingers around her hand, and she felt the brush of his nails on the back, catching on a scar on her knuckle.  She squeezed tightly and he let her, his other hand, the one with the missing fingers, coming round to take hers as it grabbed blindly at his belt.  The wind bit at her, at odds with the warmth of Bull and the air at her back, and she shivered.  Breath caught in her throat and her face felt like it had been dunked in a bucket of tepid, salty water.  And her nose was starting to run because of _course_ it was.  Dragging her hands from his, she fumbled for a handkerchief, cursing when she found her pockets empty.

A pink square of fabric, edged with silvery lace, appeared in front of her eyes, and she blinked, startled into a brief moment of silence. She looked up at Bull, thick brows furrowing as the item was pressed into her hand.  It was sturdier than she’d thought, a tightly woven cotton.  And, in the bottom left corner, a tiny, flying nug had been embroidered, with the looping initials, T. I. B.  The silk lace was finely crocheted, the stitches ones she had done many times herself, meticulously executed.  It fit Bull so well that it was nearly painful.

“I’m not blowing snot all over a Cremisius original,” Morgan said thickly, frowning and blinking up through her tears at Bull.

“Skinner washed her scarf with one of Krem’s shirts, and turned it pink. I have half a dozen more of these,” Bull said.  “And we both know you’re going to start dripping soon.”

She couldn’t help but laugh; she knew she was an ugly crier, all snot and tears and red-faced. “You’re sure?” she asked again, holding the silvery lace between her fingers.

“Just blow your damn nose, Boss,” Bull insisted with a smile. She blew, wetly, trying not to snot all over the lace.  While small on Bull, it was larger than Morgan’s own handkerchiefs, so she only soaked a corner, folding it into her fist. 

“Thank you.” She could feel how weak her smile was, and grabbed his hand again, wanting him to know that she really _was_ greatful.  “I mean it.  Thank you.  I know it’s silly; soldiers and spies who’ve done more for me than Yarrow have died and I haven’t—”  Bull wasn’t sure why he put a finger to her lips instead of just hushing her.  She was forever trying not to interrupt people that she’d have stopped talking the moment he began.  Instead, he’d lifted his left hand and laid his finger on her lips, cutting off her words as cleanly as a pair of freshly sharpened sheers.

All at once, Morgan was back in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, her Marked hand burning but her body giddy with joy. She could feel herself grabbing Bull by his harness—by one horn when he got low enough—and then her mouth pressing hard against his.  It hadn’t beena soft kiss, or a passionate one.  But it had lingered, heat spreading from her lips to her cheeks before Bull had hoisted her off the ground with a victorious roar, the cheers of the mages and soldiers washing over them both.

Morgan had felt the callous of his fingers many times before—training, tending wounds, him hoisting her to a better position during a fight—but this time, it lingered, just like the kiss. His other fingers came to rest on her damp cheek, thumb tracing the bottom edge of her chin. Somewhere, dim and distant, thunder rumbled, and the wind bit at her back again.  When his hand didn’t pull away, and his thumb replaced the silencing finger to trace the shape of her bottom lip, she sucked in a breath, lips flexing against the digit.

Bull drew his thumb to the edge of her mouth, tracing the scar at the corner. When he realized he’d been staring at her mouth, his gaze lifted quickly to her eyes, ready to snatch his hand away.  But she was just staring up at him with those big doe eyes, surprised but not unsettled.  She wasn’t tense and waiting for him to move away, she was waiting to see what he’d do next.  But he couldn’t bring himself to move; he hadn’t had a plan when he’d silenced her with a touch, and be damned if he could think of one now.

The brush of her fingers on his wrist nearly made him jump. They touched him hesitantly, her eyes now equally searching, trying to read his face in the growing dark.  She could read him better than nearly anyone alive in Ferelden, and somehow, that wasn’t so frightening just then.  Morgan slid her hands up the back of his wrist, cupping the back of his hand.  Keeping her eyes on his, she shifted his hand, just a little, until it cupped the side of her face, and she leaned into it. 

She didn’t know what she was doing, and her heart was pounding in her chest, pulse hammering in her ears. All she knew for certain was that her other hand was resting on his hip, and that the roughness of his hand was warm and wonderful pressed against her cheek.  She also knew that she wanted to kiss him again.  Just like when he had thanked her for the horn balm.  She wanted—very, _very_ much—for Bull to kiss her.

And, like anyone well-versed in seduction and body language, Bull knew what she wanted.   He realized he wanted it, too, when he let go of her face and leaned down to grab her by the waist.  Her expression went from disappointment to surprise in a blink, and she sucked in a breath as he lifted her, folding his arms around her and dropping his head.  Morgan didn’t think to close her eyes, too surprised that Bull had _actually_ done it.  Then his mouth was over hers, soft, warm, and perfect.

Before whatever moment of madness had seized him passed, Morgan wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, unafraid to let him support her weight. If he could hoist her above his head while in full armor, surely her in just a shirt and breeches would be nothing.  His tongue flicked against her lips, and she parted them easily, unable to suppress a smile as one large hand curved over her ass, squeezing.

She was just as soft as she’d been in the Temple, but this time he could taste the suggestion of whiskey on her lips, and the soft coconut balm Josephine had gifted her. For a very brief moment, he was back in Par Vollen, tussling on the sand with a young Tamassran-in-training, not much older than he had been.  They’d cracked coconuts and eaten the white flesh until the curfew bell called them back.  Then Morgan nipped his bottom lip, and he was back in Skyhold, feeling battle-trained muscle shift under his hand, strong arms wrapped around him.  This was so much better than Par Vollen.

Thunder and lightning burst almost simultaneously above them, and Morgan yelped, breaking the kiss and trying to scramble down. Bull let her, pretending he hadn’t also been startled by the burst of stormy weather.  Morgan looked up at him, doing her best to ignore the flush of heat throughout her body.  Then her anxiety reared her head, filling it with questions she didn’t have time for.  Bull saw the panic, and held up his hands, palms out.

“Hey, take it easy,” he said, using his most casual tone and make sure his shoulders sat in a relaxed posture. “I know you have a lot on your mind.  We don’t have to do anything now.”  He lowered his arms, and let his eye roll purposefully over her before locking with hers.  “But if you need anything, you know where to find me, Boss.”  He offered what he hoped was a reassuring and easy smile, even though it wasn’t the first time that he’d made the subtle offer.

Instead, it sent _more_ heat burning through Morgan, and she bit her lip.  “Bull, you’ve got to stop with that desire demon smile,” she mumbled, smiling through her blush.  “You’re going to kill me.”  There was another crack of thunder, and the rain began, falling in thick, heavy drops that instantly darkened the stone.  And while the castle was warmed by ancient magic, the weather that fell on it was not, and the rain was icy.  Morgan swore, her and Bull waving a quick goodbye as they went their separate ways for shelter.

Once inside, Morgan instantly thought of looking for Sera in the Undercroft, but she’d seen Harritt and Dagna there earlier and didn’t want to deal with so many people. Instead, she snuck behind Solas and up the steps to the library.  Fiona and Helmissa were buried in stacks of papers, and Dorian was in his usual alcove, a bottle of wine—likely stolen from the Skyhold cellar—sitting on the window sill.

Dorian looked up at the harried breathing of the new arrival, a chipped tea-cup of dark red wine in one hand, and a book in the other. He raised a solitary brow at the damp dwarf staring at him with wide eyes.  “Did Sera throw custard at you this time?  I’d hoped the stairs were her only victim.”

“Dorian,” Morgan hissed, stepping into the alcove and grabbed the arm of the mage’s overstuffed armchair, “I _kissed_ him.  He kissed me.  We _kissed_!”

Interest stirred, and Dorian closed his book and set down his tea-cup. “Who?  You can’t expect me to have a vested interest unless I know who’s involved.”

Morgan huffed and cleared a stack of books from a footstool, sitting down hard and scooting towards Dorian with as much dignity as a muddy nug. “ _Bull_!” she hissed, and both the mage’s brows rose this time.  “I was all sad and he was being nice and then he touched my cheek and then he picked me up and kissed me!”  It all tumbled out in an excited, urgent whisper.

“Hmm, yes, I imagine he would _have_ to lift you to make kissing possible,” Dorian said dryly, mischief twinkling in his khol-lined eyes, “what with you being eye-to-navel with him most of the time.”

“That’s not the _point_ , Dorian,” Morgan snapped, feeling the heat creeping up to her ears.  “What do I do _now_?”

“Well, if rumors are to be believed, he’ll take you to bed and you’ll be walking funny for a week.”

He couldn’t suppress his grin as she flushed completely crimson, her blush starting to creep under her collar. Dorian was _told_ such blushes were very attractive on women.  “Andraste’s flaming nickers, Dorian!  I don’t have time for that.”

“Then _why_ are you here fussing at me?”

“Because Bull’s my friend and I dunno how I feel about wanting to jump him,” Morgan mumbled at the floor.

“Intimidated, probably,” he said, sipping his wine and pretending not to care. “It would be quite the endevor.”  He almost spilled it when Morgan kicked his foot.  “Now, really, was that necessary?  I thought you of all people knew not to put the _wine_ at risk.”  She made a strangled sound of frustration, and he relented, smiling.  “Alright.  Why has a kiss gotten _your_ smalls in a bunch then?”

“Cuz I wanna do it again,” Morgan said hotly. “I mean, I imagined what it might be like, and Maker knows he’s got this… this…”

“Presence?” Dorian offered.

“Yeah. You noticed, too?”

“I’d have to blind and deaf not to.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Bull is my _friend_ , and… he told me qunari don’t have sex with their friends.  They just… do it to blow off steam, I guess?”

Dorian folded his hands in his lap, eyes studding her face carefully. He was no Ben-hassraath or former Carta spy, but reading body language and expressions was a necessary survival skill in Tevinter.  “Are you adverse to the idea of a casual sexual relationship?” he asked.

“Well, no,” Morgan said. He could tell there was more, and raised a prompting brow.  “I mean, I’ve had relationships like that with women.  But men… they’ve all been shallow and play at finding me attractive until after they’ve gotten me in bed.  Then I’m just a fat whore.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and his lip curled. “Yes, men exclusively attracted to the fairer sex can be especially draining.”  Something darkened his expression, and he leaned forward.  “Has Bull done something to make you think he’d behave that way?”

She started, head snapping up. “No, never!” she said hurriedly. 

“But you’re still dubious?”

Morgan’s pursed lips pulled to the side. “You’re supposed to just tell me to go for it, Dorian,” she muttered sourly.

“Oh, _do_ forgive my concern, My Lady,” Dorian snarked, sweeping his hand in a mock of a bow.

Her expression turned sheepish. “Sorry.  Not used to people, you know… caring.”

The altus sniffed, taking a long drink. “I’m not saying I _care._ I just don’t want to have to travel with you moping about because you made a decision you hadn’t thought through.”

But it was too late; Morgan already had a heart sickeningly sweet smile on her face, and she just sat there, _beaming_ at him.  “I’m onto you,” she said through her grin.

“You most certainly are _not_ ,” he snorted, opening his book again. 

“Well not like _that_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “I’m not your _type_.  I _mean_ that you want everyone to think you’re this cranky, fabulously dressed mage, so far above it all.  You’re really just a soft Orlesian _guimauve_ , coated in dark, bitter chocolate.”  She had on the sort of grin that the mage usually associated with Sera, and it fit her well enough to be slightly frightening.  The leader of an army that grew larger by the day shouldn’t be able to grin like that.

Groaning as her knees protested the stint of sitting on the stool, Morgan pushed back to her feet. “Thank you, Dorian.”  He grunted, pretending to be engrossed in his book, and she smiled so widely that her scar hurt.  She had a _friend_.

She was halfway to the stairs when Dorian called after her, “do let me know how it goes if you make up your mind. Inquiring minds _want to know_!”

 

000

 

Everyone had new armor for the march on Adamant. Not just the party Morgan picked to go with her, but _everyone_.  All the companions were going, of course.  They had all been there at Haven, and all wanted a crack at the bastards helping Corypheus, or, as Sera called him ‘Coryph- _anus’_.  Morgan liked that one better.

She had had a personal hand in several of the companions’ armor, taking time to enamel a golden sunflower on Bull’s new pauldron. She had put a rampant Gryphon on Blackwall’s shield, and designed a stylized Chantry Sunburst for Cassandra’s.  Sera had put together her own, using an obscene amount of yellow plaidweave that somehow looked quite nice with the pale blue of deepstalker hide.  Someone had also given her a pair of spiked brass knuckles.

Vivienne was resplendent in royal sea silk and silverite, the horns of her henin ringed with spikes. Dorian had left the pale palette behind for robes of a rich, deep red, the leather and armor colored black, with the occasional bit of gold for accent.  Varric’s armor had pauldrons, grieves, and bracers now, though his coat and shirt were still unbuttoned enough to show off his glorious chest hair.  Solas looked slightly less unwashed-apostate-hobo, with a wolf pelt and metal gauntlet incorporated into the drakonstone colored armor.

Morgan had chosen to wear the same colors as the Inquisition infantry, her leathers the rich gold brown of druffalo hide, the mossy green of her scarf repeated in the lining of her coat, the long tail hanging behind her legs. She had proper gauntlets and grieves now, still with lily of the valley embossed there, the silverite making them much lighter than she was used to.  Showing in her coat and above the wide sash and belt at her waist, the flaming sword and eye was emblazoned on a half chest plate.  There were flowers on that, too.  Her pauldrons were metal instead of leather, belted and buckled on, but still giving her free range of motion. 

With her hair having grown, she had it brushed and tied back into a small bun, only a few wisps tickling her forehead.   Before leaving her chambers, she adjusted her orchid to make sure it got just the right amount of light, and then turned to Hinter.  He had noticed her putting on her armor, and knew that something was wrong when she didn’t put his on him.  Taking off her metal gauntlets, she knelt in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. 

“I need you to stay here,” she said quietly, and instantly he began to whine. “There are going to be demons, possessed mages, and Maker knows what else.  I’m _not_ risking you.”  She kissed his nose, and he shuffled forward to put his head over her shoulder, sighing loudly in her ear.  “You’re such a good boy, and I need you here.  Who’s going to save everyone if things go wrong again, huh?”  Her eyes stung with tears, even though she’d arranged to have him well taken care of in her absence.  Small skirmishes were one thing; she could keep an eye on him then.  But a siege?  No.  She would not risk him.  He would not let her leave without several more kisses, and promises of treats upon her return. 

Finally outside, Morgan was swept along by servants to the stables, the din and clatter of voices getting even louder. She had been training to ride for weeks now.  She had also made sure that Bull would have mount as well, a massive black gelding that could trace some of his line back to draft horses.  He was older, ticks of gray showing in his coat.  He’d been to battle before, and stood placidly while the other horses shifted nervously as solders and scribes rushed in every direction.

Morgan’s horse was a small, dappled grey mare with black socks, mane, and tail. She had been named Storm.  Despite her small size, Storm was fast as the wind, the first time Morgan rode her at full speed as exhilarating as it was terrifying.  She was strong too, with thick legs that could carry heavy weighs long distances.  This would not be a race to the battle, but a long, slow, march.  Morgan smiled as she watched Blackwall sneak a few sugar cubes to his slightly chubby destrier.  She knew that Sera had appointed a nugalope as her mount, and quickly named it Puddin’, despite its somber attitude.

“Lady Morgan!”

Morgan turned at the sound of her name, but could see no one beyond the milling mass of mostly human—all taller than her—soldiers. Abruptly, a blur of red hair and blue robes burst through the crowd, Minaeve half stumbling over to where Morgan stood.  Her cheeks were flushed and she was panting.  “Minaeve?  Is everything alright?”  Morgan stepped forward, reaching out a worried hand.

The elf straightened, and smiled. There were faint burn scars on her left cheek and hand, reminders of Haven.  “Yes, everything’s fine,” she said.  “I just wanted to wish you luck.  I mean, I know you’re going to be dealing with quite a lot of demons, so Dagna and I made you these.”  She brought out a lumpy package wrapped in leather.  Morgan had only been able to speak to the Archanist once since the dwarf’s arrival.

Taking the parcel, she felt the weight of metal, flipping back the wrappings. Her eyes widened, flipping between the elf and the gleaming stormheart daggers she now held.  She could feel the hum of power from them, a rune glowing in each blade with a soft light.  That power only grew when she lifted one in her hand, wrapping up her arm and making her skin prickle briefly.  They were beautiful, the dark blue-green blades glinting in the sunlight.

“Minaeve, these are…” She didn’t even have the words.

“They’re both enchanted with a demon slaying rune,” the red-head said happily, bouncing up on her heels. “They should have the same weight and shape as your old ones, and fit in the scabbards you have now… are they alright?”  Her brow creased with worry as she bit her bottom lip. 

Taking the daggers in hand, Morgan let the leather wrapping fall away. Stepping back, she tried a few quick motions in the empty space between them.  When she looked back to Minaeve, she was beaming.  “They’re _beautiful_!  Thank you!  Could you take my old ones out so I can take these?”  She turned excitedly, and the researcher stepped forward, carefully removing the simple steel daggers that Morgan had become so fond off.  Turning back, Morgan sheathed the new daggers in two deft motions, then she wrapped her old daggers in the leather, putting them in one of the saddle bags.

“Stay safe out there, Lady Morgan,” Minaeve said, bowing her head slightly. “There are lots of animals in the Western Approach; I want you to bring back lots of samples.”

The silent wish for Morgan to come back alive twisted her chest, and she took a deep breath before she nodded. “I will.  Try not to get into trouble while we’re gone.”  She gave her best smile, wrapping Storm’s reins around her hand before heading off towards the main gate, a lump rising in the back of her throat.

They left with much cheering and shouting, but none of the noise did anything to pry up the leaden weight that had settled on Morgan’s shoulders. She smiled and waved cheerfully over her shoulder, hearing the people call out her titles and, every now and then, her name.  Then she turned away from them, eyes moving to scan the snowy road ahead.  Her horse’s shoes made a dull metallic thud on the stones of the bridge, the animal’s body shifting under her with each step. 

Cullen rode at the head with her, his roaring lion’s helm pulled up. But she didn’t look at him, didn’t look back at the troops.  If she did she would weep, or begin shaking with fear.  She could feel Bull’s gaze at her back, somehow separated from the thousands of other eyes.  Taking a long breath, she settled back in the saddle.  It was going to be a very long ride.

 

000

           

They had left at dawn, and rarely stopped. Morgan had been at the head of a procession before, but paused at the rise of a hill, turning in the saddle to see row upon row of people in shining Inquisition armor…  It was another thing entirely.  Sometimes she forgot that it was _her_ army, and was able to marvel and how beautiful they were.  The rhythm of their marching never varied, all heads turned resolutely forward, each wearing a determined expression.  They had been training for this, for a proper battle.  Morgan had been fighting since it began, smaller skirmishes and scuffles out in the wild.

This was _war_.  These were the battles where people died, and their names were never mentioned, never sung in songs.  People would die in the hundreds, and it was _expected_.  A shiver rolled down her spine, and she chewed at her chapped lips.  And they all had _volunteered_.  Each and every one of them had come willingly to her banner, pledged their blades and their lives to the Inquisition, to the Inquisitor.  They went gamely to their deaths, singing marching songs and laughing as the day ticked on.  Towards the end of the first day, she could see that they were tired.  But they kept going.

When they finally stopped for the day, with just enough light left to pitch thousands of tents and to start hundreds of cook fires. Morgan found a step stool and instantly began grooming storm, the mare’s saddle slung over a fallen log.  Occasionally, the animal—small for its breed but still plenty large to Morgan—would lean into the brushing, and Morgan would have to elbow her sharply in the rips to keep from getting pushed off the stool.  A blow that might have knocked the wind out of person’s lungs barely fazed the gray horse, and she flicked an ear back as Morgan worked the brush with the grain of her fur towards her flanks.

“Pretty sure they have people that can do that for you,” Bull said.

Glad for the voice of a friend, Morgan turned her head and smiled, the relief obvious on her face. “Yeah, but without Hinter here, it’s calming to do it myself.  And I have to practice, anyway.”

Bull looked the horse over, noting the relaxed way it stood, occasionally shifting to adjust where the brush hit. He also saw Morgan reacting to each of those movements, paying special attention to places that made the horse make a soft, quite noise.  She really was exceptional with animals, and could probably have been a breeder or a trainer of high esteem in another life.  The thought was a bit sad, but he smiled anyways.

“You know he’s a big boy that can take care of himself, right?” he said, sitting down on a crate.

Looking back at Storm, Morgan stilled for a moment, the Horse snorting and flicking her ears until the brushing started again. “Was it cruel to leave him behind?  What If I don’t come back to him?  What if—?”

“Stop,” Bull said abruptly, his tone so sharp that Morgan actually jumped, looking at him out of the corner of her wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” She trailed off, knowing he didn’t want her apology but not knowing what else to say.  She could feel the hard gaze he leveled at her, but didn’t have the courage to meet it.  That didn’t seem to faze him.

“If you keep tangling yourself up in all these ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’, you’re going to do yourself more harm than good.” He was concerned, and not afraid that he was making it obvious.

Morgan’s shoulders sagged. She called over a page to finish the rest of the grooming, and walked over to lean against the same crate Bull was sitting on.  “I know,” she murmured when the page had taken Storm out of earshot.  “I’ve always been like this.”  She looked at him and shrugged helplessly.  “Don’t know how to turn it off.”

“Being concerned and thinking about various possibilities is just fine. It’s really good that you’re aware of how things could go, how likely one situation is compared to another.  It’s a _good_ thing, Boss.  But being prepared and twisting your mind into knots over shit you can’t do anything about are two very different things.”

“I know, Bull. I _know_ …”  She leaned forward, scrubbing her hands over her face and through her hair.  “But’s it’s always there…”

“I’ve got that too, you know,” Bull said. “Mine’s more like, ‘how can I kill this person as quickly as possible so that no one else gets pulled into it?’.  Like if they seem to have a limp or a bad shoulder.  I’m always thinking about how could use that against them if I had to.”

“How does it not drive you crazy?” Morgan murmured. For a moment, she thought about leaning into Bull again, but decided against it.

“Mine’s probably a bit easier than yours,” Bull admitted. “I have to make them… shit, how do I describe this?”  He scratched his darkly stubbled jaw.  “I make them ‘not people’.  They’re just targets, abstract and hypothetical.  When I’m not looking for weaknesses, then they can be people.”

“I do that, too, sometimes,” Morgan said. “Probably not to the same extent… Shit, I sound like I’m trying to make it seem like I have it worse… Fuck, Bull, I didn’t—”

“Hey, easy,” he said with a gentle laugh. “I get it.  You’re trying to show that you understand.  I, ah… appreciate it.”  When she looked at him again, he smiled.  “My tent is just over there.”  He pointed.  “Think you can remember the one?”  Morgan nodded.  “Come get me if you need anything.” 

Again, without emphasis, Morgan knew that Bull really did mean _anything_ , and she tried to smile through her blush.  “See you later, Bull.”

“Nice talking with you, Boss.”

 

000

 

More marching. It was a long way to the Western Approach, and speed was of the essence.  From reports, it seemed that the Wardens were still drifting in to Adamant, still massing before they really started with the ritual.  Either way, it was a race against time, and Cullen set a punishing pace.  Morgan didn’t blame him for it, and trusted him, for the most part when it came to the troops he’d been working so hard to train.

Hawke, as it turned out did _not_ trust Cullen, especially when she learned that he had mages under his command.  She joined up with them after they passed Crestwood.  “Are you… ah, _aware_ of your Commander’s history?” she said, demeanor prickly and closed off, blue eyes narrowed as she watched the ex-Templar pour over maps and papers.

“You mean what he did before the Inquisition?” Morgan asked. All she got was a stiff nod.  “A little.  Do you know him?  I know that he was in Kirkwall.”

“It was where he was knight-captain,” Hawke said coldly. “He…  If you’d been there, you wouldn’t let him within a hundred yards of a mage.”  There was more ice in her tone than Morgan had expected, and couldn’t help that her brows rose.  “He didn’t know I was a mage at the time, so, right to my face, he said, ‘mages aren’t _people_ like you and me’.  He’s lucky I didn’t set him on fire.”

Morgan looked between the oblivious commander and the dark haired mage at her side, trying to reconcile the bigoted Templar that she was describing with the stuttering, blushing, earnest Cullen that she had come to know. She knew that he had anti-mage sentiments, and she would always slap them down the moment they came out of his mouth.  But it was clear that Hawke _hated_ the man, the air around her smelling like ozone.

“He _was_ angry when I allied with them,” she admitted.  “But… I can’t afford to judge him for his past.”  She held up a hand quickly when Marian whirled, teeth bared and mouth ready for an argument.  “Him saying that is beyond horrible, and I personally would have punched him, so you had better self-control than I do.  But he has been _good_ with the mages here.  He has given me no reason to assume that he is abusing his power as Commander in any way.  If he were, he wouldn’t be here; either Leliana or I would see to it.  I’ve made it painfully clear that bigots are not tolerated.  And I don’t have to like the man for him to be good at his job.”

Hawke deflated. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”  She sighed.

“Look,” Morgan began, biting her lip. “I know some awful things were said about blood mages in the Approach.  And I know that you and…”  She did didn’t know Merrill, she didn’t feel like she’d earned the right to say her name.  “I mean, Erimond is a complete puss-sucking, lying pile of nug-shit, but I know that… that _she_ isn’t like that.  I didn’t say anything at the time, and I didn’t want you to think that I…”  She trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek.

Marian’s brows rose in genuine surprise, the expression eventually melting to a look of curiosity. “One of your companions is a circle mage,” she said.  Morgan knew who she meant, and the surprise was obvious.

“Madame Vivienne and I disagree quite often.” Morgan looked down at her left hand, watching the light of the Mark glow faintly through the leather.  “This thing can _open_ Rifts, too, you know,” she said.  “I use it to close them, so I’m one of the good guys.  That makes the Mark a ‘good thing’.  What would happen if a person like Erimond had gotten it?”  Hawke shuddered and made a horrified face.  “Exactly.  It’s a tool, and how it’s used depends on the holder.  Blood magic can be used to do terrible things.  But so can fire magic.  And frost, and storm, and force, and any other type of magic there is.  I don’t see blood magic as much different.”

A disbelieving smile was curving one corner of Hawk’s scarred mouth. “That can’t be a very popular opinion.”

“Solas agrees, actually,” Morgan murmured, thinking back to a conversation she’d had with the elf after Redcliffe. “But he was the one who brought it up, and I haven’t exactly discussed the matter with anyone else.  Either way, I have nothing against Blood Magic itself, just people who misuse it.”  She could still remember the way the Mark had reacted to Erimond’s spell, how she could _feel_ the blood in her own veins; the tight, slick feeling of more blood being pulled from the hapless Warden’s body and used in some twisted spell that made the Mark writhe and claw at her from the inside.

“That’s… commendable. Thank you,” was all Hawke said.

 

000

 

Morgan thought she would get used to riding a horse at the head of a marching army. She did not.  She was able to tolerate the stares of civilians as they passed, row after row of banners and gleaming armor.  People both cheered and fled, smiled and waved and spit on the ground as they passed, though there were far more positive reactions than negative.  That was fine, that she could deal with.  But the Soldiers marching behind her…  They were so fucking confident.  The believed, with every fiber of their being, that the Herald would lead them to victory.  It got worse every day.

Eventually, she couldn’t look at any of them without imagining them dying, staring up at her with clouded lifeless eyes. She stopped mingling during mealtimes, going straight to her tent once everything was done.  Eventually, she stopped trying to ride alongside any of her companions, even Bull, Sera, and Dorian.  She was seeing them dying, too.  All she could think of was that she was glad that Hinter had stayed behind.  She didn’t have to worry about him.

 

000

 

Bull watched from a ways away, his own tent already pitched and ready. Morgan’s face was tight and drawn, a bland expression that only her companions recognized.  Some of them understood it differently, or were a bit off the mark, but they all knew that she was wearing a mask to cover whatever she was feeling.  Dorian and Sera stood together, pausing with their arms full of tent and tent-poles. 

“D’you think throwing a pie would help?” Bull heard Sera say.

“What? At who?”  Dorian sounded as if he weren’t paying complete attention.

“At Hooks!”

“At—oh. Morgan.”  He paused, rocking back on his heels to peer at the elf.  “You’re not serious?”

“That’s the _problem_!”  Sera whined, kicking the tent out of its roll with more force than was necessary.  “She’s so tied up in knots that she’s gonna snap.”  Despite her rough tone, Bull could tell that she was actually worried.  The more worried Sera was, the less she cursed, unless you confronted her about it.  Then she just cursed more out of spite. 

“Can you blame her?” Dorian said, looking away. Sera held the front of the tent open while he used magic to float the first of the tent poles inside.  “Look at this!”  He gestured to the army that was setting up camp in neat rows around them.  “This is a good deal more than rescuing a lost party in the Fallow Mire.”  With the frame set up inside, both Dorian and Sera started staking the rest down. 

“But she’s not smiling,” Sera muttered, muffled and almost too quiet for anyone to hear. “Hooks is always smiling…even when it’s bad, she has a smile and a bad joke…  Ow!  Piss!”  She had hit herself with the mallet she was using to hammer in the stakes. 

“She’ll be alright,” Dorian said, with a softness that took Bull slightly off guard. “She’s quite strong, you know.”

With his back still to the conversation, the corner of Bull’s mouth lifted. The ‘Vint was right.  But so was Sera.  As strong as Morgan was, she was stalling, her momentum slowing down.  She was scared.  Rightly so, but fear could be crippling.  She’d shown the ability to push past it before, but this… this was different.  She wasn’t just watching out for a team, or hearing about scouting missions.  There was a proper army for her to lead now, people willing to fight and die for her cause, for _her_.  She had known that that willingness was there before, but knowing and seeing were two very different things.

Though no one else might be able to see it, there were cracks in her mask, and the fear was leaking through. She went through the motions, grooming her horse and then letting Storm be taken off to be with the other horses.  In that brief moment, as she stared down at the currying brush in her hand, she looked so lost and small.  Bull knew what it was like to have friends, to care about them.  Hell, there were definitely friends under the Qun.  You fought and lived beside people long enough, and you nearly always came to care about them.  He didn’t like it when Krem or any of the Chargers were unhappy or hurting.  Now, the same could be said for Morgan.

He watched a scribe come scurrying up to her, murmuring something about Cullen and rations, and Morgan let them lead her off, following with solid steps but a slightly dazed expression. Bull’s jaw tightened, fingers flexing where they rested on his crossed arms.  She couldn’t keep going like this.  He knew her well enough now to know that she’d never complain, that she would push herself beyond her breaking point.  Pushing limits was fine; but breaking yourself because you failed to acknowledge them was stupid.  With the tight, purposeful way she was walking around, she was going to burn herself out before they even got there.

Something had to be done about that.

 

000

 

Morgan stared blankly at the inside of her tent. It was the same as it had been every night.  It was… stately; that was the only word that she could come up with to describe it.  The floor was covered in furs, her cot layered in blankets and having an actual pillow.  No one had trucked out the copper tub, but there was a basin and a pitcher of steaming water set on the table.  There was a dummy just her size to hang her armor and weapons on, and a platter heaped with food from the dinner that had been served hours ago. 

Stripping down to hose, smalls, and her wrap-style corset, she wandered over to the plate, picking at the sausages, potatoes, and carrots. They probably should have been delicious, but she could barely taste them as she chewed slowly, hardly noticing the change in texture when she moved from meat to vegetable.  When she had eaten all the potatoes and carrots, plus a few sausages, she stripped naked and gave herself a quick scrub with the now lukewarm water.  After that she pulled her leggings and hoes back on under a thick cotton nightshirt. Curled into a ball and perched on the edge of the chair, she sipped tepid mint tea as candles flickered and dripped.

As the noise of a bustling army faded outside, the candles burned slowly. The tent suddenly felt huge and empty, and she just felt tiny and alone.  While self-imposed, the loneliness was still crushing, pushing down on her in every moment that her mind wasn’t busy.  It had been stupid to isolate herself, and she knew it.  It was almost physically painful.  Alone, her thoughts ran darker and darker, little whispers telling her how hopeless it was, how she should just end it all now, so she didn’t have to fail again.

She launched from the chair so violently that it fell backwards, its fall almost silent on the fur-covered floor. Morgan didn’t even pause at the tent flap, throwing it open and striding out into the night, feet carrying her unerring through the dark.  She knew exactly where she was going.  When she reached her destination, she paused, hidden in the shadows between tents.  Her heart was pounding in her chest, almost as loud as the constant worry of failure.  Shaking her head, she came around to the front of the tent. 

“Bull?”

She expected to have to call his name a few more times. But all it took was one hushed whisper, and he was emerging from the tent, unfolding to his full height.  A shudder of heat and hesitant excitement rolled through her.  Licking her lips, she wordlessly took his hand, pulling gently until he followed.  As they walked back to her tent, Morgan didn’t look back, her heart still racing and cheeks flushed.  It only got worse as Bull’s hand curled around her smaller one, not just letting her hold his, but holding back.  He didn’t say a word, even after she’d pulled him into her tent.  She heard the tent flap fall closed behind him, and knew that they were alone.  Even then, she couldn’t quite get herself to turn around.

Bull looked at the little figure standing before him, her arm still stretched back and fingers wrapped around his hand. As tightly as she gripped him, he could still feel the trembling.  Gently, he pulled, and she turned to face him, eyes climbing up towards his face slowly.  He made no further move to touch, but didn’t let his hand drop from hers.  “What do you need?” he said quietly.

Morgan didn’t know what she _needed_ , she only knew what she _wanted_.  She had never been very good at making healthy decisions for herself.  Maybe this was another bad one.  But Bull was now so close, and they were finally truly alone…  The rest of the world just fell away, along with all its war and death and Rifts.  Letting go of Bull’s hand, she stretched up onto to her toes, putting a hand on each of his shoulders.  When she pulled, there was a brief moment of resistance before Bull bent, arms circling her waist as her mouth found his, nipping his bottom lip hungrily.

He made a soft noise against her, hands squeezing her hips as her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. Abruptly, his hands dropped past her ass to grab the backs of her thighs.  He swallowed her noise of surprise as he lifted her up, wrapping her legs around his wide hips.  Instantly she tightened them around him, pulling herself closer, meeting his tongue with hers.  With one hand on her ass, Bull slid his fingers into her hair, curling them slowly into a fist around the strands.

Morgan gasped as he pulled on her hair, forcing her to break the kiss and lean back. The world outside continued to fall away, slipping from her mind and taking her self-loathing with it.  Shivering, she arched head back further, exposing her pale throat.  He started slowly, kissing along her jaw, his stubble rasping her skin and making her shiver.  The kisses got sloppier as he moved onto her neck, her skin pulling tight as he sucked faint marks into the flesh.  He scraped her with his teeth on the way down, and she shivered, legs tightening and a muffled moan escaping her.

Bull couldn’t help but smirk, dragging his teeth a little harder, putting them into the next mark, feeling her start to squirm. When he reached the place where neck met shoulder, he paused, listening to her quickening breath and feeling the way her fingertips dug into the backs of his shoulders.  He opened his mouth and bit down, pinching muscle and flesh between sharp teeth.  She cried out, a high, surprised sound.  The pain was sharp and bright, bursting into the slow build of heat like a stone dropped into still water.

But she didn’t try to squirm away, her body arching against his chest, nails biting into his skin and dragging along his shoulder blades, making him growl as he sucked a dark, red-purple bruise onto her pale, freckled skin. He came away with a wet, nearly obscene pop, grinning wolfishly at her.  The bite still tingled and burned, their eyes locked.  Trusting him to hold her weight, Morgan dragged her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, leaving raised, redish-purple lines in their wake.

Bull growled, body tensing. But the grin never faded.  Morgan leaned in until his grip on her hair burned, her lips barley brushing against his before he pulled her back again, walking them across the floor.  He dropped her onto the bed without ceremony, following her down and moving her so that she sat with her legs over the end.  He crouched down, crowding her, pulling her to the very edge of the over-glorified cot.  When she tried to sit up, to seek his mouth again, he slid his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and pulled.  The tug of fabric lifted her hips upwards, dropping her back onto the cot.  She felt her smalls coming away, too, Bull’s calloused fingers a delicious contrast to the smooth, sensitive skin of her thighs.

When she tried to sit up a second time, Bull grabbed her behind her knees, spreading her legs and hooking him deftly over his horns. With so much of her body lifted upwards, Morgan was trapped, half hanging.  Her hands fisted in the furs under her, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.  She could feel Bull’s breath puffing against her thighs, his rough hands widening the spread of them as he gave a deeply satisfied growl.  Turning his head, he watched the way the scrape of his stubble made her squirm, and sucked gently at the bottom edge of the lacy tattoo on her left thigh.  He breathed deeply, nostrils flaring as he took in the hot, musky scent of her.

Maker, how many times had she imagined using his horns in _exactly_ the same way?  And he’d swung her up so easily, so readily…  His kisses drew further and further up her thighs, little nips leaving small sparks of pain, mingling with the soft touch of his lips and tongue.  To be held like this, to be put _on display_ , just for Bull’s enjoyment… A moan squirmed out of her, impatient and far needier than she’d meant it to be.  The warmth of his breath was a tease all its own, washing over her already heated cunt. 

He must have known it, too, dragging the tip of his nose through the dark curls, tracing the edge of her outer labia, a tickling sensation that made her hips squirm. Tightening his hold on her thighs, he dipped his tongue into the heat of her, parting her outer lips to taste the slick gathering there.  It was such a feather light touch, just the barest contact, but Morgan’s breath caught in her throat.  One hand left her legs, his tongue drawing slow figure-eights over her sex.  His hand flattened against the small of her back, sliding up her spine, feeling the lash scars rise and fall under his palm.

With just one hand, he kept her where he wanted her, only _just_ tasting, more a tickle than stimulation.  Then she felt his hand shift, lifting off until only his fingertips pressed into her skin.  Then he pressed his nails in, pulling them down her back in a slow, gentle drag.  Instead of arching away from the sharper sensation, Morgan whined, arching into the touch.  She sighed when he slid his palm back up over the scratches.  He flexed his hand again, short nails pressing into the skin between her shoulder blades.

“Again?” he murmured, and she nodded silently. He dug his nails in this time, raking them down her back.  Again, she arched into the pain, her sharp, surprised cry tapering into a low, guttural, and wordless sound.  Renewing the attention on her cunt, Bull ran his palm gently over her back in slow circles, feeling the slightly torn flesh and smelling just a hint of the iron tang of blood.  There would definitely be marks in the morning.

“Bull, you…” Morgan found herself already slightly breathless, heart hammering in her chest.  But whatever she might have been going to say left her completely as Bull buried his face between her legs, dragging the wide flat of his tongue all the way along her.  When he found her clit, he tongued it gently, feeling her thighs twitch on either side of his head.  When he flicked his tongue against it Morgan’s hips bucked, though they didn’t get far, locked again in Bull’s vice like grip.  There might even be bruises on her thighs in the morning.  The thought excited both of them.

“Were you saying something, Morgan?” Bull murmured, the use of her name adding an extra shiver.  The vibration of his voice—his deep, rumbling, unbelievably powerful voice—tickled her in a way she hadn’t expected, and she sighed happily.  He started drawing shapes with his tongue again, this time on and around her clit.  Each time he plucked it upwards a jolt went through her, inner muscles clenching and heat spiraling out through her limbs.

“Mmn, as much as I _really_ like,” she had to stop when he flicked his tongue against her clit again, “what you’re doing, I don’t…  I’m…”  Self-consciousness surged.  “Shit, it just usually takes me a really long time this way.  I’d be fine, if—”

Bull stopped abruptly, lowering her hips slightly and lifting his eye to meet hers. “You are aware that qunari have ridiculously strong jaw muscles because of the horns, right?” he said, shifting them just enough that the rough texture rubbed at the backs of her knees.  “I can and _have_ gone for hours.”

The pink that had gathered in Morgan’s cheeks rose to her ears, toes curling. She looked away.  “I still… I just didn’t want you to have to—ah!”  Bull dove back in, slipping his tongue into her and fucking her in slow, languid strokes.  Hand leaving her thigh, he dipped a finger in her ample wetness, dragging it up to pluck on her clit.  Another little spark of pleasure, and she moaned into her bit lip.

“Whoever made you feel bad for not coming _fast enough_ ,” she could hear the disdain in his words, his finger still plucking at her gently, “needs a swift kick in the ass.”  He sucked a hickey on the inside of her thigh.  “With a chair.”  She snorted, making her body tighten, his tongue circling her entrance again.  “That’s on _fire_!”  Morgan couldn’t help it, dissolving into giggles only to choke on them as he sucked directly on her clit.

“Maker…” She sagged back, feeling Bull easily heft the weight that dangled from his horns, shifting his hands to her ass to hold her in position.

“No Maker,” Bull growled. “Just me.”  That began a shiver separate from the physical arousal, a tangled mix of fear and excitement.  Her attention was drawn again to where his hands rested, feeling the size of them.  He had her completely at his mercy, able to do whatever he pleased with her.  She shivered again, the heat in her center bolstered by the simple act of just letting go and _submitting_.  She whimpered, rocking her hips against his mouth, her thighs burning with the tingling scrape of his stubble.

Her hand found his, tugging, gently, until he released her hip, feeling her slide his hand under her nightshirt, the fabric pushed up as she drew him to her breast. Goosebumps raced across her skin, and she shivered, toes curling where they braced against Bull’s back.  His large hand hefted the heavy weight, fingers spread and sinking into the pliant, pillowy flesh.  He squeezed once gently, letting his rough thumb brush over one small, stiff nipple.  While he would have loved to get a proper look her tits, he was far too absorbed in the task in front of him, his fingers playing gently on her chest, plucking, pinching and teasing.

The thrumming rhythm on her clit never ceased, pushing her through cresting waves that rose higher each time. Bull showed no signs of being tired or frustrated.  After a while, she felt her inner muscles starting to twitch.  The crest of each wave was more intense than the last, and soon the sensation was nearly unbearable.  Sweat broke out on her brow and on her upper lip, her powerful legs locking around Bull’s horns and pulling, trying to get herself closer to his devious mouth, closer to the climax that hovered just out of reach.

“Relax,” Bull murmured, a slick finger replacing his tongue. “Don’t chase it, don’t think about it.”  He kissed the inside of her thigh.  “Just _feel_.”  She whimpered, hips squirming and her legs tugging at his horns.  His cock twitched and he smirked.  Morgan tasted as good as he’d imagined, all quivering tattooed thighs and little breathy moans broken up by panting…  As quiet as she was, it was music, and he went at her in earnest, the twitching of her inner muscles taking on a purposeful rhythm.

He had to clamp his hands down around her thighs as she rocked against him, the balls of her feet pressing hard into his shoulders. All her muscles slowly began to tense, making her back arch sharply upwards, all sound ceasing except for her ragged breathing.  Then the wave finally broke over her, and heat burst out from her core, wrapping around her limbs as she quaked soundlessly, colors flashing behind her tightly closed lids.  Then she came crashing back down, body tightening over and over, and her breath loud and rasping.

But Bull didn’t stop. He continued to flick his tongue, feeling her start to thrash as pleasure bordered on pain.  But she didn’t push him away, so he continued, her breaths turning into jumbled phrases and snatches of words, too mixed together to make any kind of sense.  Morgan came again without much prompting, still half floating.  The second wave hit even harder than the first, her loud, stuttering moan tapering off into a whimper. 

Drawing away from her clit, Bull lapped gently at her entrance, tasting the fresh wetness. He made a soft sound of approval, low and deep in his chest.  Slowly, almost tenderly, he eased her legs from his horns, grinning smugly as they fell limply back to the bed.  He dragged his nails lightly down her chest and stomach, feeling residual muscle twitches in her abdomen, her chest rising and falling as she tried to regain her breath.

When Morgan was aware enough to realize that Bull had pulled away, she sat up sharply, grabbing him by one horn to keep him from retreating further. He caught her hand, but didn’t make her let go.  His other hand cupped the back of her head, kissing her deeply.  Morgan could taste herself on his lips and tongue, and another shiver rolled through her.  He was till crouched between her legs, and she locked them around him, hooking around the backs of his legs.  Her hand lowered to tug pointedly at his belt.

“You’ve got to ride in the morning, Boss,” Bull murmured against her lips.

“So?” She slid one leg between his, pressing upward against the erection tenting his trousers. It was incredibly gratifying that the act of bringing her pleasure was enough to arouse him.  Her hand tugged at the catch on his belt insistently.  She wanted this, wanted _him_.

His hand caught hers again, gently, stilling it. “As much fun as it would be, you would be in no shape to ride.”  He kissed down her neck, working on marking the other side.  “I’d rather take my time, with that, too, see just how far I can push you.”  He punctuated his words with sharp little nips that left her feeling more like a bag of shivery liquid rather than a person.

“Fuuuck,” she growled, knowing that he was right. She thought for a moment, biting her lip.  When Bull pulled back to look at her face, he saw something wicked glimmering in her eyes.  She slid her legs around between them.  Then, in one smooth motion, leaned back, planted her feet on his chest, and _shoved_.  Taken off guard, he fell back onto his ass with a grunt, legs kicking out in front of him.

Morgan followed him down, moving to crouch on her knees between his legs, planting her palms on his chest, and her lips on his shoulder. “Still,” she murmured, biting down and earning a pleased growl, his hands latching onto her wide, soft hips again.  “That doesn’t mean that _you_ can’t have fun, too.”  Her self-consciousness was forgotten, tossed away with thoughts of anything beyond the tent.

“I _did_ have fun, Boss,” Bull said, even though he didn’t push her away, tilting his head and she worked over his shoulder to his neck.

Heart pounding like a drum, Morgan took a breath and lowered her hand, wrapping her fingers around his cloth-covered erection, squeezing at the same time she bit the shell of his ear. His huge body bucked forward, his fingers digging into her hips.  The growl in her ear sent a fresh surge of arousal through her, and she suddenly couldn’t stop smiling.  “Please,” she murmured, tracing the outline of his cock, leaning forward to press her chest to his.

Bull grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back until her neck arched sharply. Out of the corner of her eye, Morgan saw that he was regarding her with a mixed expression, somewhere between impressed and curious.  “You want my cock, that badly, Inquisitor?” he rumbled.  The usual tightening of her stomach when she was addressed by her new title never came.  Instead, Morgan trembled and bit her lip.  The mighty Inquisitor, brought, naked, to her knees by a qunari spy…  She nodded, hand circling his girth again.  Maker, she was starting to love the sound he made when she did that.

Somehow, Bull got his legs under him, keeping a hold of Morgan’s hair and drawing her up as he got to his feet. He walked backwards in slow, measured strides, stopping when they came to the tipped over chair that Morgan had left.  He let go of her hair.  “Bring that back up,” he ordered.  The words—not a request, a fucking _command_ —made her cunt twitch, and she hurried to obey, righting the chair and stepping back.  Bull sat down and maneuvered her to stand in front of him.  They were just barely at eye-level.  He hooked a finger in the collar of her nightshirt, tugging.  “Off.”

Wordlessly, Morgan complied, her arms crossing over as she peeled it up and over her head. It was forgotten the moment it left her hands and hit the floor.  Bull looked completely at ease as he sat before her, reclining in the simple wooden chair like a king on the most opulent throne.  His long legs stretched out before him, knees spread wide and arousal standing obvious between them.  To keep from reaching out, Morgan clasped her hands in front of her, the motion pushing out her heavy breasts.

Easing upwards, Bull slid an arm around Morgan’s waist, pulling her forward until her knees bumped the chair, his fingers spreading out on her lower back. His other hand slid up over her rounded stomach, feeling well developed muscle tense underneath.  For all her softness, she was turning into a warrior.  He nudged her head to the side, nibbling her neck as his hand hefted the weight of her breast.  The soft exhale of her sigh tickled his ear.  When he caught one small nipple between his large fingers and pinched, her body jerked, the pain tightening her muscles in a horribly pleasant way.  He laughed quietly near her ear, the low rumble making her squirm on her feet.

“You’d do anything I told you, wouldn’t you?” he murmured. “I could tell you to climb up and ride me, and you _would_ , wouldn’t you?”

Morgan’s knees felt watery, her mind acutely aware of the places where his body touched hers. He was right, too.  Marching and riding be damned, if he told her to climb into his lap and fuck herself on his cock, she _would_.  She would do anything he told her.  Listening to Bull, she didn’t need to think about their impending doom, about distributing rations and medical supplies, about strategies and how many casualties to expect.  She just had to do what he told her.  She leaned into him, kissing his temple near the base of his horn, the skin rough against her lips.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Just tell me what to do.  Please.”  Her hands came up, cupping his shoulders and pulling closer.  “ _Please_ ,” she whimpered, nuzzling the side of her face into his.  Bull pinched her nipple again, and she squeaked, feeling an answering clench between her legs.

His fingers stroked through her hair, hand coming down push her back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Good girl,” he purred.  “Now get on your knees.”  His words were low and clipped, orders he fully expected her to obey.  Shivering, Morgan did as she was told, settling between his legs with her hands on his thighs.  Her fingers twitched, eyes flicking between his face and the odd mechanism of his belt.  He must have noticed, because he chuckled darkly.  “You always this impatient?” he said, one hand lowering towards his belt.

Morgan couldn’t help the half smile that curled her lips, cheeks warm. “I may or may not have been imagining doing this since we met,” she admitted.  On the edge of her vision, she saw him undo his belt and start pulling at the lacing of his trousers.  She bit her lip, but didn’t dare look away from his face.  The candles threw the cragginess of his features into sharp relief, turning him into some primal, ancient looking being, all power and heat and…

“Get to work then,” Bull said simply.

Morgan swallowed hard, fingers curling around the fabric of his trousers, nails catching. She’d felt the impressive girth of him through the fabric, but to see it naked before her— _offered_ —was another thing entirely.  Thick and uncut, jutting out with a gentle upward curve that she instantly wanted to feel inside her.  Arousal rolled through her like honey, slow and sweet until it hit her cunt, the heat of it making her ache.

“Yes, Ser.”

As she wrapped her hand around him, pulling slightly and rolling the skin back from the head, he brought a hand down to stroke her cheek with the back of his knuckles. There was something regal in the way he did it, like she was beneath him, just a servant attending to his needs.  She knew that that wasn’t really the way it was, but the _idea_ of it, of letting Bull _use_ her for his personal pleasure… Something in that thrilled her.  He smirked down as she parted her lips, pink tongue dragging up the length of him.  “‘Ser’, huh?” he murmured.  “I think I like that.”  His head fell back as she sucked the broad head into her mouth, her tongue lingering on the sensitive area where head met shaft, and he growled.

That fucking _sound_.  It was raw, ragged, and full of the primal power Morgan knew he kept so tightly controlled.  Her hand squeezed the base of him, head dipping to take more of him into her mouth.  There was still a lot of cock left.  But Morgan was nothing if not determined.  Or maybe stubborn was a better word.  She felt the heat of his gaze and the satisfaction of his smile as she worked slowly, stretching her jaw wider and wider, spinning her tongue around him in rapid, random patterns.

Bull held back a shudder. She was _good_ at this, better than he had expected.  And when she looked up at him, gauging his reaction, her eyes were so fucking hungry.  Bull had had sex enough to know when someone was reciprocating simply because they felt they had to.  That was fine, and a desire to please one’s partner was definitely a good thing.  But then there were people that enjoyed not only making their partner feel good, but also the act itself.  Morgan definitely fell into the latter category.  His hand tightened as the head of his cock bumped the back of her throat, the minute shift of her lips giving away what would have been a smile had they not been otherwise occupied.

Her throat tightened at the intrusion, but she persisted, taking a deep breath through her nose and forcing her body to relax. Leaning down again, she felt the head press past the clench of muscle, tongue flexing under him as he slid into her throat.  Pressing it upwards, she forced her mouth and throat to make a swallowing motion, squeezing Bull.  As she worked her way down, it had been all soft noises and words of praise from him.  Now she felt his thighs twitch with restrained motion, and the hand near her cheek sank into her hair, slowly balling into a fist.

Slowly, she drew back, sucking in a greedy breath before she plunged back down again, slowly towards the end, her nose brushing the tight black curls at the base of his cock. Again, she took a deep breath before descending again, feeling him close up her throat, and his hand tightening in her hair.  Finally— _finally_ —she took all of him, jaw aching and burning with the strain.  Again, she swallowed, and Bull’s control slipped, hips jerking forward just enough to make her stiffen.  Instantly he was still, coming out of the haze to look closely at her face.

Morgan pulled back, eyes watering slightly and a long string of saliva clinging to her lip. She drew back just enough to press her lips in an obscene kiss to the weeping head, grinning widely up at him.  Before he could say a word, she dove back down, using her saliva to slick her hand as it pumped what she didn’t take into her mouth.  Bull growled, but sagged back into the chair.  “Do you have any idea how hot it is that you’re enjoying this too?” he rumbled, and she hummed around him.

And she was, too. Once, when she took him fully into her mouth again, she dipped a hand between her legs, finding her slick nearly dripping, clit almost too sensitive to touch.  Splaying her hands out on his thighs, she began to bob her head up and down in a slow, even rhythm, hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard as she drew back up.  She could feel the tense muscles under her hands, bull working hard to keep himself still.  All that power, quivering under her hands… She quivered, too. 

Again and again, she would pull her hand from the shaft and take him into her throat, swallowing or bobbing up and down a few times, her eyes watering with each stroke. All the while, her tongue continued to move, pressing and twisting and stroking the underside and sides of his cock.  Bull could feel his climax, a hard knot that pulled tighter and tighter with each bob of Morgan’s head.  When he was close, he tugged on her hair, giving a clear warning.  Her eyes flicked up to him and she didn’t stop.  She just increased her pace, her hand pumping what she wasn’t sucking, and she undid him.

The tug on her hair as Bull came was sharp, but not unpleasant. She felt him hunch forward, cock twitching in her mouth as she swallowed all she could.  When she finally pulled back, she grinning smugly up at him.  Bull half rolled his eyes, reaching down to draw her up.  The kiss was unexpected, as was his tongue as it slid passed her swollen lips to rub against hers.  The other men she’d been with in the past had only offered a small peck after such an act.  Trust Bull to be different, as he was in so many things.  She sank into the kiss, all her tension gone and showing no signs of returning.

When they parted, they didn’t break contact, both still panting. Bull chuckled quietly, his hand stroking her back, feeling the beginnings of scabs.  “Oh, I am definitely fucking you when we get back to Skyhold.”  He felt her stiffen in his arms and quickly added, “if you want, that is.”

Morgan leaned back, craning her head to meet his eye. “Yes!  Of course!  I just…”  Her brows furrowed, and her gaze dropped.

“Just what?”

“From what I’ve heard, once you’ve had someone, you don’t exactly go running back for seconds,” Morgan murmured, frowning. “You struck me as a one-and-done type.”

Bull continued his slow petting of her back, learning the pattern of the scars there. “Usually, yeah,” he said, unashamed by the fact.  “But do you remember?  When I asked you what you _needed_?”  Morgan thought a moment, then nodded, so he continued.  “You need more than just a good roll in the hay.  You never asked for any of this, but you shouldered the titles of Herald and Inquisitor without a thought.  You’re doing a good job, but you don’t seem to have any way to relieve the massive amount of stress that comes with the job.”

“A way to ‘pop my cork’,” Morgan offered.

He nodded. “Exactly.  You need someone else to be in control for a while, right?”

Morgan felt heat rising to her cheeks. “Yes, it’s… it’s really, really nice.”  Her words came out a strung-together mumble, quiet and bashful.

“I know,” Bull said, letting his hand settle on the curve of her plump behind. “I’m pretty sure you enjoyed this kind of thing before all this.  Am I right?” 

Shifting to sit on his good knee, Morgan let out a breath. “Yeah,” she admitted.  “Don’t do it often, though.”

“I get it,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “If you don’t trust someone, you can’t give control to them very easily.”

“If you’d told me I’d be trusting you this much back on the Coast, I’d have laughed in your face,” Morgan said, her eyelids suddenly very heavy.

“Same here.” Morgan didn’t touch the quiet, half whispered admission, though her heart swelled with an oddly victorious joy. 

“So…” she began slowly. “You want to do this again.  With me.  Assuming I’m agreeable.”  She had to shake herself when she realized that she had let her eyes close.

“Yup.”

She thought about it. Being able to go to Bull when she had been in meetings all day, seceding all control over to him for a while…  Heat stirred tiredly in her belly.  “I’d… I’d like that.”

“We’ll talk about rules and stuff when this mess with the Wardens is over.” He shifted under her, sliding an arm under her legs.  “And when you’re not falling asleep.”  Morgan tensed for a moment as he stood, but her weight settled easily into his arms, his steps sure and steady as he carried her back to her bed.  The tent went dark as Bull blew out the candles.  Laying her nightshirt and clothes within reach, he drew the blankets back over her.  “See you later, Boss,” he murmured, getting a vague, sleepy noise in response.  He left with a grin on his face, tying the tent flap closed behind him.

 

 


	15. Edge of the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SUPER NSFW. Like, pretty much the whole chapter. If you don't like spanking, or the idea of a sexual partner holding you down, you may want to skip this. This story is tagged enthusiastic consent for a reason. Enjoy!

Edge if the Abyss: 

 

Like every morning since leaving Skyhold, Morgan awoke to hardly a whisper of movement beyond her tent. But, _unlike_ every morning, she awoke feeling rested.  Fatigue didn’t gnaw at her, and her limbs didn’t feel impossibly heavy.  Her chest also felt… _lighter_ , somehow.  She still knew that each day brought them closer to the Western Approach, and the siege on Adamant Fortress.  She still knew the risks, knew that soldiers could— _would_ —die, and still felt the weight of it.  But tight, pounding, clawing anxiety had loosened its grip on her chest.  None of the feelings were gone, but she no longer felt strangled by them.

When she sat up, the scabbed over scratches down her back pulled and stung pleasantly, an inescapable reminder of the reality of the previous night. A giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she covered her mouth with a hand, feeling her cheeks heat again.  She felt herself grinning stupidly in the dark, a light feeling settling in her chest, a shining moment of joy that sat brightly among the fear and anticipation of bloodshed.  For a brief moment, she felt intensely guilty, and her smile faltered.  But she shoved the feeling aside; she had taken the weight of the world onto her shoulders without protest, and more than deserved something that made her happy.

She thought of Bull’s rumbling growl, and the sharp scrape of his stubble on her neck and between her thighs, and the stupid smile returned. As she stood, she felt a light twinge in her thighs, left over from the work her muscles had done.  It was an incredibly pleasant ache.  The smile persisted throughout her morning ritual, and by the time her hair was pinned back and her armor buckled on, she could hear the camp stirring outside.  She knew that if she waited long enough, servants would come with food for her, but she never liked to do that. 

Stepping out, she was greeted by a brisk morning breeze, the air smelling clean and pure. It struck her, oddly, how different the air was here compared to Ostwick.  Ostwick was no bastion of industry, but the air in a city was always different.  Now that she spent months in the open air, Morgan wasn’t sure that she ever wanted to go back to living in a city.  She didn’t spare any more thought for that, for as improved as her mood was, she still wasn’t ready to face the possibility of _after_.

Morgan gave her best regal nod as she passed a pair of soldiers going in the other direction. They looked startled at first, but quickly returned the gesture by placing their fists over their hearts in a formal salute.  There was no whispering beyond the usual, and it occurred to her that her being with Bull was still a secret.  As her thoughts continued in that vein, she began to frown.  While she had never been shy about her partners in the past, it occurred to her now that she no longer had that luxury. 

The ‘Herald of Andraste’ was a symbol to people, something beyond a normal person. Normal people failed, stumbled, and disappointed.  Her having any kind of sexual relationship would make her ‘normal’.  Then she thought of the nobles, and her frown became a scowl.  They would saw awful things if they found out that the Inquisitor was carrying on with a qunari mercenary, someone perceived as well below her station.  Not that they thought much of a former smuggler dwarf, but that was now beside the point.  And if they ever found out that he was actually a Ben-hassrath?  She shuddered to think of how _that_ might go.

More than anything, it pissed her off. She understood that, logically, the arrangement should be kept secret.  It just made sense.  She didn’t like people in her personal business anyways, but had never been ashamed about who she slept with.  But other people would care a great deal.  Morgan wanted to spit; she _hated_ politics. 

Some old part of her pointed out that it actually _was_ dangerous to engage in _any_ sort of relationship with a foreign spy.  She tossed that thought aside.  Whoever he raised a flag for, he had proved his loyalty to her, and to the Inquisition.  She had heard a few grumbles about having paid mercenaries as part of the Inquisition, but by and large, most people _liked_ the Chargers, or at least didn’t dislike them.  Considering how they had fought at Haven, Morgan was sure that number of nay-sayers had gone down.

She came across Varric first, standing in front of a brazier and holding out his gloved hands. Morgan joined him, flexing her own fingers before holding them out to the heat.  “Morning,” she said.  She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a _good_ morning, judging by his demeanor, even if she was in relatively high spirits.

Varric gave a wordless grunt, hunched down into a crocheted cowl in dark brown. Even if he was cold, he still stubbornly refused to button up his shirt.  Morgan just watched the flames, enjoying his silent company.  After a while, she felt him watching her.  He was no Ben-hassrath, but she knew he was still an astute man.  She wondered just how much her change in mood showed, and a half smile tugged at the scarred corner of her mouth.

She _did_ look different.  There were still dark circles under her eyes, but there was life in them now.  The empty look was gone, eyes bright and attentive.  She wasn’t just standing there, lost in the distant reaches of her mind.  She was actually thinking about something.  Varric’s eyes narrowed slightly.  Had she finally taken the healers up on their offer of a sleeping draught?  They always made him groggy and head-achey the morning after, so he didn’t bother with them, himself. 

“You sleep okay, Hooks?” he finally said, voice still slightly rough.

“Yeah, actually,” Morgan said.

“Keeping the secret to yourself, huh?” he said, and she looked up at that.

Morgan shrugged. “No secret, Varric.  I’m still scared shitless, but being scared now doesn’t really do me any good, does it?”

“That’s… pragmatic.”

Her sigh was heavy, shoulders rising and falling slowly. “I’m just… so done, Varric.  The battle is going to happen, I can’t change that.  Whatever my feelings, there’s no point in tying myself into knots about shit I can’t do anything about.  All I can do is sink my daggers into any asshole that tries to kill me or my friends.  Don’t care if they bleed blood or inchor.”

“Shit, kid,” Varric muttered, though there was a smile in his voice.

“Six-and-twenty is hardly a ‘kid’, Varric,” Morgan pointed out wryly.

He held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Whatever you say, your worshipfulness,” he said contritely, and Morgan shook her head and laughed.  Varric blinked, slightly startled by the happy sound.  “Whatever it is you’re doing, Hooks, to keep your mood up like this?  Keep doing it.”

It took a concentrated effort of will for Morgan not to blush. “That’s the plan,” she said finally, bracing her hands on the small of her back and arching backwards until her spine popped loud enough to make Varric wince. 

“What? To die young and leave pretty corpses?”  Both dwarves turned to see Dorian, shoulders hunched, stalking over.  “Because I fear I may freeze to death before we reach the blasted desert.”

Morgan snorted, though she certainly couldn’t blame him. He was from further north than she was, but they were both used to much warmer temperatures, especially at this time of year.  She thought about telling him to ask Cullen to borrow his furred mantle, but decided against it.  Dorian stepped up to the brazier, stretching out his arms. 

“Sparkler, I hate the fucking cold as much, if not more so, than you do,” Varric muttered from inside his muffler, and Morgan couldn’t help but giggle.

The happy sound had Dorian’s head whipping around, his eyes instantly narrowed at the dagger-wielding rogue. “You’re smiling,” he accused.

Morgan put on her best slightly bewildered mask. “Aaaand?”

“You’ve been more of a storm cloud than the Seeker, as of late,” Dorian said, eyes still sharp and appraising. “ _Giggling_ hasn’t been heard from you in weeks.”

She rolled her eyes, putting her hands on her hips as her heart pounded like a drum. “I’m done with being worried.  Either I’ll die or I won’t, but if someone _does_ try to kill me, I’m going to try and kill them right back.”

The mage remained unconvinced. “No, there’s something different.  Did you finally take a sleeping draught last night?”

“I have enough nightmares without magical help,” Morgan muttered sourly, which was true. She never had good dreams anymore, unless she drank herself stupid.  Sleeping potions had never agreed with her, even before the Conclave.

For several long moments, Dorian watched her in silence. Then, like the slow creeping of a magma flow, a grin curved his lips.  The grin lit his eyes with a mischievous glimmer, and Morgan was glad that the cool morning air had already flushed her cheeks.  For as much pomp and bluster the man surrounded himself with, Dorian was wickedly intelligent; so much so that Morgan was certain he’d have made a decent spy.  Considering she had already told Dorian about kissing Bull, and her attraction to the qunari, she did _not_ want the mage blathering the news all over camp.

“Sparkler, if she got laid, you don’t need to go harping on it,” Varric muttered, still hunched and the epitome of grumpy dwarf.

Despite her best efforts, Morgan felt the blush rising. Dorian’s grin was now positively victorious.  She knew if she didn’t control herself quickly, she’d admit to Varric’s guess without uttering a single word.  But Dorian spoke first.  “Finally,” he scoffed, appearing unconcerned save for the glint in his eye.  “Maker knows you needed some stress relief.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Morgan rolled her eyes, appearing wholly done with the whole business. “I’ll leave you two gossips to yourselves,” she said wearily, shaking her head.

The mage gave and imperious sniff. “As if I would ever stoop so low as to _gossip_.”

It was Varric’s turn to snort. “You and the Iron Lady think you’re so discrete, but it’s really not that hard to figure out what you two talk about over all those tiny sandwiches.”

“Like you talk about anything different over that horrible ale at the tavern,” Dorian retorted.

“Varric doesn’t drink,” Morgan cut in, glad that the conversation was steering away from the improvement in her mood. “He just buys other people drinks to see what they’ll say when they get drunk.”

“Hey!” Varric objected, coming out of his cowl. “How’s a man supposed to make a dishonest living with you sharing his secrets?”

“You’re the one putting ideas in Dorian’s head,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t need help in that department.”

“It’s not an _idea_ , Hooks,” Varric said, and now there was a spark in _his_ gold-brown eyes.  “You _definitely_ got laid.”  The look he pinned her with could only be described as _knowing_.  Years of training abandoned her in a blink, and she felt a real blush rush over her, easily distinguished from the flush of cold air.  “Hah!  Told you.”  He thought a moment, his expression turning ponderous.  “Wait, who was it?  You don’t strike me as the type to just drag a random soldier off to a dark corner.”

“And we can’t really narrow it down much,” Dorian said, taking a step closer to Varric. “She doesn’t seem to have any definite preferences when it comes to race or gender.”  He tapped his chin, making a great show of thinking, but the glint in his sharp eyes told another story.  If anyone could guess who she’d been to bed with, it would be Dorian.  But she trusted a man of his _particular_ tastes, born and raised in _Tevinter_ , understood the need for discretion.  At least she _hoped_ he understood.

“Why does it matter?” Morgan finally got out, voice a bit sharper than intended. It took all her self-control _not_ to cross her arms across her chest.

“Because of the pool,” Varric said simply.

Both Morgan and Dorian looked confused. “Pool?” they said together.

“There’s a lot of betting going on involving the inner circle,” the blond dwarf explained. “A favorite is who’s going to end up knocking boots with who.”  He eyed Dorian.  “Most people pick you and Curly, or you and Bull.”  Then, nodding to Morgan, “they have you sleeping with pretty much all the men except Solas.  Then some found out you like women, too, so there’s _that_.”

Morgan threw her eyes skyward. “This is your fault,” she accused the heavens.  “You wanted me to do all this and look at the thanks I get.”

“You should have seen Hero’s face when he found out people were betting on the two of you together,” Varric said, his eyes sparkling now. “Went as red as a tomato, stammering and stuttering.”

“Eeuh!” Morgan shuddered in disgust.

The other dwarf laughed, a genuine smile pushing through. “What, not a fan of beards?”

“I’m not a fan of men that look like my _father_ ,” Morgan intoned, suppressing another shudder.

“Oh, shit.” Varric winced and laughed.  A thought seemed to strike him.  “Hey, what about you and your Dalish friend?  What’s her name?  Sh’vara?”

“ _Their_ name is Sh’vara,” Morgan corrected.  “And they don’t have sex.”

“With…?”

“With anyone. At all.”

“Oh.” A pause, then realization.  “Oooh.”  He thought some more.  “Your Vashoth mage friend?”

“Are you just going to ask me if I’ve fucked all the people I know?” Morgan asked, smiling despite herself.

“Well, whenever I write all this weird shit down, people are gonna need a little romance to make things feel normal.”

“Write about Bull then. He’s probably charmed the pants off half the Inquisition,” Morgan said with a dismissive wave.

“Does that include the Inquisitor’s pants?” Varric said, half teasing.

Dorian scoffed. “If he had, she’d have limped her way over,” he said with a dismissive wave, thought the sparkle remained in his eyes.

Varric shrugged. “Yeah, you might be right.”

Morgan rolled her eyes in a decent imitation of Cassandra, keeping silent as she left the warmth of the brazier before she did or said something that _really_ gave her away.

 

000

 

Despite saying that she was done worrying about things she couldn’t do anything about, Morgan suddenly found herself immensely concerned with how to act around Bull. They hadn’t really had time to iron out any rules.  She bit her lip as she walked, hands clasped behind her.  She counted him as her friend, and one of the few people on the face of the earth that she actually trusted.  She didn’t want anything to change between them, just because they were having sex.  Sometimes, she knew, that adding sex to a relationship could change the very nature of that relationship forever.  And not always for the better.

She had to take a mental step back. She had maintained several casual sexual relationships in the past, and all but one had ended on perfectly friendly terms.  All of Bull’s sexual encounters seemed to be casual, and she hadn’t heard an ill word said about him among the various men and women that gossiped about his prowess in bed.  So, logically, she knew that they were both more than capable of maintaining a friendship with a sexual element.  She came to the conclusion that it was only worrying her because she actually fully trusted him.  Trust was such a rare thing for her, that having it in a relationship was an anomaly, a factor she wasn’t sure how to account for.

Then she saw Bull’s horns standing up over the tents in the dim light of early morning. She wanted to turn and go the opposite direction for a moment, but forced her feet to keep going forward in his general direction.  Without a crowd of civilians to impress, and with the battle still two days’ journey away, he wasn’t wearing full armor, just his harness and bracers.  The moment she came around the tent she had a full view of his superbly muscled back, and her smile turned a bit smug.  They hadn’t discussed exclusivity, and she honestly wouldn’t have asked it of someone as… _prolific_ as Bull was.  But there was something terribly satisfying about having had a man that so many sought and lusted after.  Also… the idea of having him _again_ …

A pleasant shiver that had nothing to do with the air rolled down her spine and the backs of her arms, the dull pain of her mark giving an answering throb. When associated with Bull, however loosely, she found the pain far less bothersome.  The subtle twitch of his ears gave away that he had noticed her, but he didn’t turn until she came up beside him.  “Hey, Boss,” he said, and there was absolutely nothing different in his tone.  She felt a surge of gratitude.

“Morning, Bull,” she said back, suppressing another bout of stupid grinning. Already, she could feel the air starting to warm; they were getting closer to the Approach, the soil becoming sandier and the flora more sparse.  She wondered if the desert would remind him of home, since she was fairly sure that only part of the Qun territory was tropical.  All she knew for certain was that it was a lot warmer.

“This is going to be amazing,” he said, looking out over the expanse of tents, at the sheer number of people stirring and starting to ready themselves for another day of marching. “The Chargers wanted to come, too, you know.”

“They _wanted_ to come fight a potential army of demons?” Morgan said, wishing she could raise just one eyebrow.

“Well, no,” Bull admitted with a grin. “They thought it’d be kinda badass to be fighting Grey Wardens.”  He saw the frown on her face and continued.  “Not that they don’t like Wardens, as far as I know.  But think about how much training those guys go through; warriors, mages, rogues, the lot of ‘em.  Plus their stamina is…”  He trailed of, chuckling quietly in an exceptionally lascivious manner.  “Anyways, they’re all pretty amazing, and to be able to _test_ yourself against someone like that…”  There was a growl to his voice, anticipation of the battle to come.

Morgan couldn’t help but smile. “I can understand that.  But I’d also like to avoid fighting as many as possible.  Especially if they all fight like Blackwall.”  Neither of them brought up the fact that there was some doubt surrounding their companion now.  He was a fierce fighter, often taking blows meant for others on his side, even if he didn’t particularly like them personally.  Whatever secrets he kept, he was good to have at your back in a fight.

“Gone against him in the ring a couple times,” Bull said. “Bastard fights dirty.”  There was a smile in his voice that pointed towards approval.  “Would feint for my blind side so I’d do my usual compensation, then hit me on the right.  Crafty fucker.”  He was still smiling, and Morgan hoped dearly that their suspicious were groundless.  She _liked_ Blackwall, his laughter and gruff, shy demeanor distancing him further and further from her look-alike father. 

“I saw that,” she said. “Pretty sure he does that with you because he’d not sure he could win otherwise.”

“Hey, it’s smart, though,” Bull pointed out. “You see an opponent you know you can’t beat by normal means, you cheat.  You use whatever you can to come out on top, even if whatever that is isn’t considered ‘honorable’.”

Having been taught the same thing, Morgan nodded her agreement. Since switching to daggers, she always fought dirty, going for groins and eyes and any opening she saw.  As strong as she was, she was still smaller—and sometimes lighter—than most of her opponents.  Using their weight and momentum against them wasn’t always an option, so she used whatever she could.  She would bite and pull hair if it was an option and would give her an advantage.  Unless they were fighting Darkspawn.  Biting went right out in that case.

Bull turned to look at her, a slow, appraising glance that he was sure she felt, even if she didn’t turn her head to meet his eyes. She was standing a bit straighter, her shoulders loose instead of hunched and tight.  Her fingers still tapped and fidgeted, tracing the lines on the embossing of her bracers over and over.  But he knew repetitive motions calmed her.  She was still nervous; no amount of good sex could completely get rid of the nerves that came before such a huge clash of forces.  But the lost look was gone from his eyes, and his smile started edging towards a satisfied smirk.

Her new armor fit well, and while not _made_ to accentuate her figure, it somehow managed to anyways, the sash and belt accentuating the way her waist narrowed before the wide flare of her hips.  The slight curve of her breastplate under her coat gave away that she had a sizeable chest.  Most women in armor didn’t need any extra room for their breasts.  He’d have to take more time with hers next time, he thought, remembering the soft, pliant feel, and the warm weight as he had hefted one in his hands.  He scrubbed a hand over his face to erase the grin.

Morgan felt every moment of his gaze, and had caught some of the grin. She _knew_ what that look was, and it sent a little thrill through her, an odd sort of reassurance.  Bull wasn’t sleeping with her just out of some sort of want to make his friend feel better.  There was lust there, too.  She knew it was silly how relieved that made her feel, but couldn’t bring herself to care.  She was about to speak when the back of her neck prickled, and she turned quickly.

It was just Solas, his mostly bare feet silent on the ground. Morgan’s lips twitched slightly in a frown; a mage had no business being so sneaky.  “Inquisitor,” he greeted, coming to a stop before her.  “Could I have a moment of your time?”  His eyes flitted briefly but pointedly in Bull’s direction.

While she liked Solas well enough, something about him just rubbed her the wrong way, despite his good qualities and generally calm demeanor. Morgan shifted her feet in a more relaxed stance.  “Of course,” she said, making no move to order Bull away or to leave his presence.

To his credit, Solas took the hint without reaction. “Your Mark,” he began, both hands wrapped around his staff.  “You expressed concerns before Haven, but we never had time to discuss them.  You were so busy back at Skyhold.”

The slight jab did _not_ go unnoticed, but he was right.  She _had_ been avoiding him.  She sighed, and peeled off her left glove, watching the Mark crackle with light.  “My dreams have fallen into a pattern,” she said.  “Always the same.  My father appears and shows me what will happen if I fail in exacting detail.  I see my companions and friends killed over and over, and it’s always my fault.”  It was freeing, somehow, to spill what she’d been keeping to herself for so long.  “If I’m not dreaming that, I don’t dream.  Or if I do, I don’t remember.”

“That’s not all,” Solas said, and Morgan felt a surge of dislike at his tone, like he was speaking to a lying child.

“The Mark reacts to magic,” she said, meet his eyes, her own flashing defiance. “I feel cold when Vivienne throws ice, and warmth when something is caught fire.  Through the Mark, I can feel you standing there, like a needle drawing across my palm.”  She looked back at Bull, and found him staring hard at Solas, his arms crossed over his chest making him look even wider and more intimidating than usual.  She turned back.  “It… protected me once, in the Hinterlands.  There was nothing but the Mark between me and a blast of fire, and I wasn’t burned.”

The surprise on his face was clear for a brief moment before his brows furrowed in contemplation. Morgan sighed.  “Solas, does it seem unstable to you?   Is it killing me, like it was at first?”

“May I?” He held out a hand towards her, and she tucked her glove into her belt before holding it out.  Solas had to take a few steps forward to come within reach.  His longer slender fingers were cool, and might have been pretty attached to another person.  He closed his eyes, and she felt the curious tendrils of his magic slide from his fingers to hers, probing cautiously along and around the mark.  Then he let go, eyeing her up and down curiously.  “It is not expanding again, but this requires more time than we have,” he finally said, his frown deepening and his brows coming together.  “We will speak later.  Afterwards.”  He turned without another word and left.

Morgan opened and closed her mouth several times, before turning back to Bull, yanking her glove back on. Bull was closer than she remembered, and he was looking down at her with furrowed brows, silent but questioning.  “I’m fine,” she muttered.  He looked unconvinced.  “After all this is over, I _promise_ ,” she nearly reached out and took his hand, “that I’ll spend as long as I have to with Solas to get this shit figured out.” She wiggled the fingers on her left hand.

The frown lingered, whether from concern for her well-being or a distrust of magic, Morgan couldn’t tell. She liked to think it was because he cared, in some capacity or another.  The rest of the morning leveled out her mood.  While it was full of battle plans that she kept getting told would likely go to pieces the second things started, she didn’t drift back down into the clutches of desperate depression.  Instead, she got angry.  Angry at Corypheus for corrupting one of the most important armies in all of Thedas.  Anyone who disagreed about the importance of the Grey Wardens could kiss her freckled ass.

 

000

 

Over the next three days, the soil and scrub finally gave way to yellow sand, the rising temperatures having everyone boiling in their armor. Dorian and Vivienne looked as cool as iced wine, and Morgan wanted to hate them for it.  What she found bothering her most was the idea of putting Storm through such weather.  While they traveled the most during the morning and the evening—the middle of the day was too hot for anything but varghests, phoenixes, and maybe the occasional desert fennec—the horses and other beasts of burden all guzzled their water as eagerly as the humans.  Morgan thanked the Maker for her high boots, but was certain that it would take weeks to get all the sand out of her hair.

The last of the night had gone, so they finally stopped to camp. Morgan knew that it would be last stop before the home stretch.  That chilled her a little, and she was quiet for most of the last meeting with Cullen and the company leaders.  She made an appearance at the mess tent, going around and shaking hands, smiling and joking with the soldiers.  It felt like going through water, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally able to retire to her tent.

Bull was already there.

Morgan stopped in her tracks, blinking dumbly.  Bull was reclined in the same chair that they had used last time, and that brought memory surging back so fast that she blushed up all the way to her ears.  She suddenly hoped that she was very sunburned.  Bull pushed effortlessly to his feet, striding silently across the floor towards her.  He stopped when he was very close to her, looking down with an odd, unreadable expression.  It bothered her at first, almost like being blind.  But then she saw a glimmer in his eye, and knew that he had nothing but good things in mind.  It should have been frightening for her, not being able to read a person, but the part of her that cared about such things was getting farther and farther away.

When she smiled at him, Bull saw some of the tension ease out of her shoulders. He lifted a hand, letting it slide around the back of her neck, thumb resting on the corner of her jaw, just below her ear.  His skin was cool and dry, a comfortable difference from the oppressive dry heat that had persisted throughout the day.  With his hand still at the back of her neck, Bull turned and walked towards the bed.  She followed without resistance, letting him guide her to where he wanted her.  He sat himself on the edge of her bed, pulling her to stand between his legs as they spread out in front of him.

Standing like that, he was only _just_ shorter than her.  Silently, he took her left hand with both of his.  With a quick glance at her face, he pulled off first one glove, and then the other.  His eyes fell to the buckles of her grieves, and then the sash at her waist.  Morgan’s chest tightened with the same nervous excitement as the first time, the uncertainty of what Bull had planned adding an extra layer to the feelings.  Bit by bit, her armor came away, tossed carelessly aside like pieces of a shell.  She’d been wearing it so much that the armor had become almost a part of her, and it felt good to have it taken off. 

Every movement, no matter how soft or subtle, tugged and shifted her, but never so much that she had to adjust her feet. Bull stopped when she was just wearing her leggings and long sleeved linen undershirt.  He let himself lean back, appreciating the shape of her without her armor.  Some of the fat she’d carried at the beginning had been replaced with muscle, but the soft roundness still clung to her; he knew that she loved sweets almost as much as he did.  He was glad to see that her shoulders were still loose, that the look in her eyes was very much alert.  She wasn’t lost in her own head.

His gaze wasn’t sharp, but Morgan still felt pierced by it. She had always known that he was keenly observant, but feeling that reading look in a more intimate setting was very new to her.  She shifted nervously, unsure if she should reach out for him or wait for him to touch her again.  But he seemed purely content to look at her, and she grew tired of waiting.  Catching his eye, her arms crossed, hands grasping the bottom hem of her shirt and drawing it over her head.  The look in Bull’s eye changed slightly, becoming lidded and ever so slightly predatory, while a smirk began to curve his lips.

Maker, she loved his mouth. Wide and full, with scars at the edges and framed by laugh lines.  It could speak something kind and reassuring just as easily as something bawdy and obscene.  And now she knew _exactly_ how talented that mouth really was.  She reached out and raced one of the scars that lead down to his mouth.  Quick as a snake, he caught her thumb gently between his teeth, grinning wickedly up at her until she had to snort at his silliness.  This was good.  Not all heavy seduction and lust, but laughter too.

Releasing her hand, he put one of his behind her, sliding his fingers up her back.  She tensed, for a moment forgetting the marks that he had left and thinking only of her scars.  But then he smirked up at her again, the rough pads of his fingers following the fine lines of scabs he had left the previous night.  His eyes left her face, trailing over first one shoulder, and then the other.  He looked so damn smug, and Morgan felt a suddenly longing for a mirror.  She could only see one of the love bites, but knew that there were plenty more.

“Damn, you look good like this,” Bull rumbled, words laid over a low growl. He pressed one spot, and Morgan felt a tiny twinge.  “You mark easy, too.  That’s…”  He just trailed off, but something told Morgan that he liked it.  She smiled, feeling heat in her cheeks.  “I can use that.”  He looked at her like a painter considering a work of art, contemplating their next step.  Despite the fact that she was still wearing her stay and leggings, she felt very exposed.

As if aware of her train of thought, Bull reached up, plucking at the laces of her stay and ordering it off.   “Leggings next,” he said, voice taking on a commanding edge that went straight down Morgan’s spine.  “Smalls, too.”  Biting her bottom lip, Morgan hooked her fingers in the waistband of both leggings and smalls, sliding them over her hips and down her legs, stepping carefully out of them before she straightened again. 

Bull’s arms circled around her, drawing her forward with one arm around her waist. Morgan couldn’t help but sigh as she leaned into him.  She had always enjoyed skin-to-skin contact, and even though his belt buckle was a bit cold, the warmth of his skin pushed everything else out of her mind.  Her quiet reverie was interrupted as he pinched one small nipple sharply between his fingers, tugging gently.  Morgan squeaked, then instantly clapped a hand over her mouth.

Grinning evilly, he tugged again, lifting the weight of her breast up and making her rise onto her toes. Almost instantly, he released, covering her breast with his warm palm.  Despite her slightly reproachful look, heat had kindled deep in her belly.  Bull’s smug grin didn’t help matters.  “Thought I read you right,” he said, obviously satisfied with himself.  “You know what a watchword is?”  Morgan blinked, then nodded.  “Good.  You have one you want to use?”

Her mind was spinning. Just what did Bull have in mind that would require the use of a watchword?  Nearly all the ideas that came to her made her want to shiver with anticipation.  “I only trusted one person enough to do that sort of thing,” she finally said.  “Those memories… are unpleasant now.”  She skirted the painful thoughts with practiced ease.  “So, no, to answer your question, I don’t.”

The smugness dropped away instantly. “Anything in particular I shouldn’t do?”

The smile that curved her lips was all warmth. She slid her arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose.  “I trust you.”

Bull actually frowned. “Yeah, but you have a habit of saying you’re fine to placate others, even if you’re _not_ fine.  I’m fine pushing your limits, but I won’t go beyond them.”  His hands tightened on her.  “Not even without knowing, so you _tell me_ if you don’t like something.”  He let out a breath.  “I will not betray your trust.”

He was so honest and sincere that Morgan wondered if, in another life, she might have fallen in love with him. She nodded.  “I understand,” she said. 

His grip relaxed slightly. “Good.  If you’re ever uncomfortable or need to stop, just say _‘katoh’_ , and I’ll stop.”  His hand slid down, cupping the curve of her ass and sitting just next to her sex.  She shivered, and his smirk started to return.  He lifted his hand and brought it down with a sharp smack, making Morgan jump and yelp.  Color rose again in her face, and she bit her lip.  Bull’s grin became toothy, and his hand returned to dip between her cheeks, her legs instinctively spreading to allow him access.  His finger slid easily through the beginnings of wetness, and she whimpered.  “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this,” he rumbled, his other hand sliding up to grab a fistful of her hair.

Yanking her head back, he latched onto her neck, sucking a new mark into her skin. Over her shoulder, he eyed the field desk that had been set up.  Sucking on her racing pulse, he slid a hand between them to toy with her nipples again, pinching sharply.  The high little sound she made make his cock twitch, and he brought his hand down on her ass again.  Morgan jerked, his broad hand having struck the exact same spot as before, the sting slicing through her.  Almost instantly, it turned to a fresh curl of heat that settled between her legs.

Abruptly, Bull pushed to his feet, his body sliding against hers and his hand staying in her hair. He led her by it over to the desk, sweeping aside the documents that had been left for her to look over.  It was a small, simple piece of furniture, perfectly waist level for someone Morgan’s size.  Morgan let him push her down over the flat surface, turning her head so that her cheek pressed against the smooth, polished wood.  Slowly, he let go of her hair and stepped back.

“Grab the edges of the desk,” Bull commanded, standing behind the desk and slightly at her side. Morgan did as she was told, soft green light leaking through the fingers of her left hand.  With the way her head was turned, she couldn’t see Bull, but she could still feel him, his presence seeming to warm her even without contact.  Excitement spun and tightened in her chest; she was being put on display again, completely at the mercy of his whims.  She didn’t have to decide.  She just had to _submit_. 

Moving to stand directly behind her, Bull leaned forward to brace his hand on the desk beside her. His nails dug in between Morgan’s shoulder blades and dragged sharply down, pulling up tiny sections of scab and drawing new welts across her scarred, tattooed skin.  She whimpered, the sound morphing into a sigh as he slid the flat of his hand over the newly raw skin.  The way the sting of the scratch contrasted with the soothing warmth of his hand was absolutely perfect.

Still leaning over her, Bull used his foot to nudge her legs apart, slipping a hand between them. His large hand cupped the whole of her sex easily, his fingers starting a slow, flexing rhythm.  It was gentle pressure at first, slowly building her sensitivity.  When he drew his middle finger through her slick inner lips, Morgan tilted her hips upwards, trying to offer him more.  He took his hand away just long enough to add the slickness of his saliva, seeking out her clit and pushing upwards against it over and over.  Morgan sighed, relaxing into the sensation.

The first strike came from nowhere, with no shift or warning from Bull. His other hand stuck the meat her backside sharply, and her eyes snapped open, her body clenching.  The hand returned more softly, stroking the reddening skin.  He had noticed her enjoyment of touch after a blow, and her whimper tapered off.  Moving again, he slid his hand between her and the desk, starting a new plucking rhythm at her clit, his other hand drawing away.  He watched the way her body tensed slightly in anticipation of the blow, his ears catching her quick intake of breath.

He struck her bottom again, once more hitting the exact same spot as the previous blows. Morgan whimpered, pressing up into the soothing touch that followed.  “You know, Boss,” Bull murmured, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “I can feel you tighten up every time I hit you.”  He slipped his finger past her clit to tease her entrance.  “Here.”  He dipped the tip of his finger just inside, the single digit easily just as big as two of her own.  “Almost makes me wish I’d brought some of my toys.”  There was a dark chuckle in his voice.

Cool air rushed in, making goosflesh pebble her heated skin. Bull’s hand came down again, hard enough to make her yelp.  He began to spread the blows out, alternating between one cheek and the other.  Her pale skin reddened after each blow, and between strikes, he smoothed one hand over the abused skin, feeling her tremble at the mixing sensations.  His keen ears picked up the sound of her nails scraping over the wood of the desk, her breathing becoming more rapid.  Immediately after the next blow, he dipped a finger between her legs.  Morgan shivered, the digit drawing easily along her, much more easily than before.  She whimpered, and wondered if she’d ever manage to stop blushing.

Behind her, Bull made an odd sort of rumbling noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl. If he was honest with himself, it had been quite some time since a partner’s needs had been so well aligned with his personal preferences.  He enjoyed sex in just about every form, but took special pleasure in drawing his partners along the knife edge between pain and pleasure, pushing them to the limits of their endurance.  To see Morgan reacting so favorably filled him with a deep seated satisfaction, and he leaned forward, catching the shell of her ear between sharp teeth.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, low voice practically a purr. Morgan gave a wordless nod under him, pressing up on her toes, ass bumping against his half-hard cock.  He chuckled and clicked his tongue.  “No, Morgan, you have to tell me.”  He slid a hand under her, seeking out a nipple and pinching sharply, his bulk pressing her down as she jerked.  He didn’t let go, twisting slightly.  “Do you like me laying into your ass like this?  We keep going, you’ll be smarting just pulling on your breeches.”  She made a soft keening noise.  Bull pinched hard enough to make her cry out.  “Tell. Me,” he commanded.

Morgan wanted to squirm, the words forming in her mouth keeping the color high in her cheeks. “Yes!” she rushed out.  “Yes, I like it when you hit me like this!  Please…”  She pushed up and back again, trying to grind against him.  The texture of the fabric of his breeches was a sweet torment against the reddened skin.  “Please don’t stop, Bull. _Please_.”

“Oh, I _like_ it when you beg.”  Something about the voice he was so used to hearing—whether shouting in battle or telling an amusing story—begging him for more… He growled then, unable to hold back a sound that sometimes unsettled partners.  There was a moment when he paused, searching for tense muscles or some loss of focus from the woman below him.  Instead, Morgan shivered, the primal, nearly possessive sound sending a tremor through her, one that had nothing to do with fear or uneasiness.

Bull pressed himself down, sealing her to the desk as his chest and stomach pressed into her back. She shifted experimentally under him, and knew with absolute certainty, that there was no escape.  He adjusted his hand between her and the desk, dipping his finger into her with a few shallow thrusts.  Before rising back up, he sucked a new mark onto her shoulder, pinching an old scar between his teeth.  He growled again, feeling her shake under him. 

When he straightened back up, Morgan nearly whined at the loss of his warmth, and at the feeling of his weight over her. Maker, if him just _spanking_ her felt this good, what could fucking possibly be like?  Her head spun with familiar fantasies, all of them now sharing one detail in common.  Whatever Bull did, she wanted him to hold her down, to press his weight and power against her, leaving her helpless…  Another strike to her ass made her whimper, the sting sharper over the already sensitive skin, even the soothing brush of his warm palm unable to completely assuage the pain.  But every now and then, he would dip a hand to her sex, sliding one thick finger inside, pumping slowly.

Bull began to alternate between hits and fingering her, plucking at her clit in the same upward motion she had so enjoyed before. When he slid a second finger inside, he realized where things were headed.  He ground his teeth and bit back a frustrated growl.  He really, _really_ wanted to fuck her.  He wanted to open her up and pound her into the floor, holding her down while she squirmed up against him.  But she was so _small_ ; he wasn’t even sure she’d be able to take him.  Getting his cock down her throat had already been an impressive feat, but she felt so tight around his fingers, clenching down each time he pressed them back inside.

She was aware that she had begged him not to stop spanking her, but his fingers were _much_ larger than hers, stretching her open so slowly.  It brought to mind all sorts of other activities, and she bit her lip, daring to glance over her shoulder.  Bull’s good eye was hooded, and flicked up at once when he felt her gaze.  Without looking away, he turned his hand and curled his fingers, pressing against a spot just an inch or so inside her.  Her mouth fell open in a little gasp, back arching and hips pressing downward.

Unable to resist, Bull crowded over her again, latching onto the meat of her shoulder with sharp teeth, sinking his fingers as deep as they would go. She pressed back into the intrusion, squirming under the delicious press of Bull’s weight.  It wasn’t her wanting to free herself, but to feel more of him.  He seemed to understand, keeping her trapped as his hand worked between her legs.  Just two of his fingers were nearly more than she’d ever had, and her clit throbbed.  When she whimpered his name, he growled in her ear, biting and sucking at her shoulder until the skin tasted raw.

As her arousal mounted, he could feel the crushing tightness around his fingers start to relax. He was standing close enough that he knew she could feel his erection against the back of her thigh; his roomy pants and lack of smalls didn’t exactly keep things in place.  And she kept pressing back, even trying to move a leg to press up against him.  He could smell her arousal now, too, filling the air with an undeniably female scent.

A sudden feeling of dread surged over Morgan; they marched for Adamant in the morning, and would be in battle by nightfall. It was a very real possibility that neither of them would make it out.  As a lump rose to her throat, need welled up, and her hand came back, grabbing one of Bull’s horns and yanking him down.  She turned her head, feeling his stubble scrape her cheek.  “Bull.”  She got out only his name, her throat tight and tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.  There was no way she was wasting this chance.  “Bull,” she began again, arching her neck back and finding his ear within reach of her mouth.  She bit the lobe and he groaned above her.  “I want… I _need_ you to fuck me. _Please_.”

It was the same pleading tone as before, completely unrepentant desperate. Hunched over her, with her mouth tugging on the sensitive lobe of his ear, Bull couldn’t come up with a single logical reason to deny her.  Angling his head, he managed her capture her mouth in a sloppy kiss, slipping another finger in beside the first two.  Her moan of relief was muffled against his lips, and he drank it in, nibbling along her full bottom lip.  He dragged his tongue along the kiss-bitten flesh of her shoulder tasting the soft tang of sweat.  Morgan’s hair smelled like elfroot oil, and he breathed deeply as he slipped his hand between her and the desk.  There was no need to search to find her clit, the little nub already swollen.

All it took was a single upward stroke to make her cry out, body nearly convulsing. She was even closer than she realized, her cunt starting a clenching rhythm around Bull’s thick fingers.  Her own hand was aching with the force she used to grip his horn, acutely aware of the rough texture against her palm. He kept going until her hips began to rock, the drawers on the desk rattling.  The pleasure ripped through her, the world seeming to fall out from under as scorching heat surged outwards, her entire body drawn as tight as bow-string.

Bull felt a burst of pride as the dwarf came undone under him, her strong arm yanking his head down. He nursed her through the climax, fingers pumping slowly through the rush of fresh wetness.  When the clenching finally stilled, and he felt the muscles relax—looser than before—he finally drew gently away.  When she felt the heat of Bull’s body retreating, Morgan whimpered, pushing up on her hands and trying to turn around.  But her legs seemed to have turned to water, and Bull had to catch her, a wry smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Easy, I’m not done with you yet,” he rumbled, though there was a note of tenderness in his voice. He eased her onto the chair, taking a step back to crouch and remove his ankle brace.  As he stood, he kicked away his boots and stepped out of his breeches.  Seeing him fully naked and aroused affected Morgan quite a bit more than she had expected, and she made a wordless noise of appreciation.  She wanted to take hours to map each and every scar and blemish on his body, but again, anxiety surged, tightening her chest with a need to hold Bull as close as possible. 

He only managed to take a couple steps before Morgan was on her feet again, grabbing his shoulders and yanking him down into a desperate kiss. He didn’t break away as he exerted pressure on her shoulders, pushing her to her knees and following her down.  He was barely seated before Morgan was climbing into his lap, straddling the wide spread of his thick legs.  His erection bumped hotly against her stomach, but she just ducked her head to his neck, feeling tears prick her eyes and not wanting him to see.

Then her teeth found his ear again, and she felt it twitch, Bull’s hands flying to her hips, blunt fingertips digging in hard. His cock twitched between them.  “You are a _menace_ ,” he growled.

“Then stop me,” Morgan said, tracing the shell of his ear with her tongue, all the way to the pointed tip. It twitched again, earning another growl and a rock of Bull’s hips.  If she pushed him far enough, he might not notice the desperation or fear that she was feeling.  As she darted over to the other ear, she slid a hand between them, wrapping firmly around Bull’s cock, stroking roughly.

All at once, Morgan was on her back on the floor, her hands pinned above her head again, legs spread wide as Bull settled between them. “Remember the watchword?”  Morgan just hooked a leg over his hip and ground her wet cunt along the underside of his cock.  His hips rocked forward and he bit out a curse.  “Fuck, woman!” he growled, an incredulous smile curving his scarred mouth.

Morgan shoved the clawing anxiety to the back of her mind, filling it with nothing but Bull. “Yes, that was _exactly_ what I had in mind,” she said, breathless.  She wasn’t going to miss this chance, especially since it could be her only one. 

“We’re going to have to work on that obedience of yours,” Bull said, spreading his knees slightly, and tightening his hold on her wrists.

“Promises, promises.” She grinned up at him, and his expression abruptly softened.

“Hey…” Bull leaned down, releasing her hands to touch her cheek.  “You good, Boss?”  His instant change of mood sliced through her façade, chest clenching.  Her expression faltered, but she tried to keep the smile fixed.  The qunari’s smile became rueful, and he began to rise away from her.  Morgan grabbed him by the shoulders, making a small cry as she pulled him back to her.  He didn’t pull away again.  “Tell me.”

Morgan took a breath, and then it all came out in a tumbling rush of words. “I’m so fucking scared, Bull.  I’m terrified of dying and leaving people behind.”  She took another breath to keep the tears at bay.  “And I don’t want to waste this chance to be with you.  I’m going to fight like hell to stay alive, but if…  If I _don’t_ …”  Her voice caught in her throat, and she prayed that Bull could use his skills to guess at the rest.

Instead of speaking, Bull caught her in a searing kiss, snatching up her wrists while his other hand spread her legs around him. The hand left her for a moment, and she heard the rustle of cloth.  When she opened her eyes, Bull had produced a small glass bottle, likely from his trousers that lay in a heap within arm’s reach.  Keeping her hands pinned, Bull pulled the tiny cork with his teeth, letting the slick oil drip over both Morgan and himself, corking the bottle before he began to massage it in.

She sucked in a quick breath when he slid his fingers into her again, making sure that the oil reached as deep as it could. She was unable to tear her eyes away as he sat back and slicked the oil over himself, and bit the inside of her cheek.  Leaning forward again, Bull used the hand not restraining her to put the broad head of his cock at her entrance, the heat of the contact scorching. 

His eyes lifted to hers. “Relax for me,” he murmured, and she could hear the lust laid bare in his voice.  Morgan took a long, slow breath, closing her eyes and drawing her focus to the weight still lingering in her limbs, the heat of Bull above her, and the sensation of his hand wrapped around her wrists.  She let out a breath, lifting and spreading her legs as wide as they could.  Bull’s thighs shifted against hers, she felt him start to press forward.

As much as she wanted to gasp and shiver at the sudden heated pressure, Morgan kept her breathing slow and even. The stretch was sharp at first, a bright spark against the afterglow that had settled over her.  Then the head was inside her, and she let out a trembling breath, mirrored above her as Bull sucked in air before biting out a curse.  “Fuck, you’re tight!”  Some of her anxiety melted away in the wake of pride, and she offered him a smug grin.  But he didn’t still or stop, continuing his slow press forward, aided by her arousal and the liberally applied oil.

He was, by far, much bigger than anyone she’d been with, and it took all she had to keep her limbs from tightening up. No amount of orgasms or lube would help if she freaked out and clamped down.  And she wanted it so badly, to feel the burning ache in the morning, carrying it as a reminder; one extra reason to stay alive.  She didn’t realize that she had started trembling until Bull put a hand on her hip, no longer needing it to guide himself inside.  His hold on her hip was tight enough that she knew it would leave bruises, and she felt glad.  Unable to help herself any longer, she arched under Bull, legs curling around the backs of his, holding herself open for him while at the same time pressing herself closer.

As he gave a little rock of his hips, pushing deeper, Morgan heard herself crying out, a brief, soft sound, her mouth falling open. It hurt so beautifully, a sharp stretch wrapped around the warm heat of exquisite fullness.  But there was already so much of him, and she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.  “Bull…” she whimpered.

“I won’t stop unless you use the watchword,” Bull said, going still. “Scream, cry, kick, curse; I won’t stop unless you say _katoh_ , understand?”  She nodded, biting her bottom lip.  “Good girl.”  He rocked his hips forward again, angling hers up to meet him.  Morgan sucked in breath after breath, nerves that had gone quiet in her leaden limbs roaring back to life, acutely aware of every minute shift of motion.  Sensation built until it was nearly overwhelming, her body simultaneously trapped and protected.

Bull watched her closely, his hands still holding her fast. Her chest swelled with rapid breaths, body taught and trembling.  His eyes were drawn to where his skin stood out against hers, silver-grey stark against flushed and freckled ivory.  “Fuck, you look good like this,” he said, voice hoarse with restraint.  His eye flicked down, and he groaned.  The sight of his cock slowly vanishing into her, her cunt twitching around the girth…  A growl rolled out of him, and his hips snapped forward, burying himself in her to the hilt.

Crying out more from surprise that pain, Morgan arched up, legs jerking around Bull’s waist. They hung there together, basking in the sensations washing over and through them.  He considered apologizing, but when he opened his eyes, Morgan was smiling up at him.  Her legs flexed around him, and she used the leverage to lift her hips.  They both groaned as he slid slightly out and then back in.  Bull’s hand left her hip, sliding up her side.  For a moment he wished there wasn’t quite such a difference in their heights, so that he could bend down and put his mouth on one of her nipples.  He contented himself with pinching and rolling one between his fingers, growling as she tightened reflexively around him.

Morgan very nearly felt like she was drunk. She was somehow acutely aware of every sensation, but also separate, floating and heavy at the same time.  There was also a feeling of safety and surety that hung over it all. Despite the overload of physical sensation—both pain and pleasure—Morgan had never felt safer or more relaxed.  When she looked at his face again, she saw something unfamiliar in his eye.  It traveled over her slowly, going from where their bodies were pressed together, across her torso and chest, and then darting to where his hand restrained both of hers.  When he looked at her again, there was that same hooded look of lust.  Biting her lip, Morgan rocked her hips again.

What pain there had been was fading, just a dull prickle in the background. The stretching fullness was exquisite, but if he didn’t start moving soon, she was going to scream.  So she rocked her hips _again_.  Bull growled a warning, and Morgan’s smile became defiant.  “I’m short, not made of glass, Bull,” she said, slightly breathless.  “I said I wanted you to fuck me.  And I _meant it_.”  This time, when she rolled her hips, Bull grabbed her side in a powerful grip, holding her still.

“I think I’ll gag you next time,” he growled, drawing his hips slowly back. “You’ll take what I give you and be _grateful_.”  He pushed back in almost as slowly as his initial entry, watching Morgan arch under him, mouth falling open.  He moved again, still slowly, and smirking at the frustrated moan he wrung from her.  Even if he was still giving her body time to adjust, there was no reason she had to know that.  With the way she had tightened up a moment ago, she didn’t seem to mind the way he spoke to her.  He filed the information away for later, wanting to properly focus on the clenching wet heat he was pushing into.  Despite how relaxed she’d been, she was still achingly tight, and he wasn’t about to ruin a perfectly good evening.

The slow pace was both perfect and agonizing, drawing the sensations out, giving Morgan time to really feel them. And she couldn’t stop looking at Bull.  She’d seen him exert himself, breathing hard at the end of a fight.  But this… this was from _her_.  A new shiver of prideful pleasure lanced through her, and she arched herself up to properly meet his next slow thrust.  She knew that she was breathing hard too, heart hammering at her ribs.  She rose up to meet each thrust, shuddering and cursing at the sweet friction.  Her eyes fluttered shut; she didn’t need them open to know that Bull was watching her with a smug, satisfied grin.

And he had every right to be smug. She was used to being smaller than her partners, but the disparity in size this time was on a whole other level.  And she _liked_ it.  She liked that Bull was bigger than she was, stronger.  His hand could close completely around both her wrists without any difficulty, and he could lift and maneuver her easily.  She hadn’t expected to enjoy that part quite so much.  But now that she was, she was determined get as much of it as she could.  Her eyes came open, moving slowly up Bull’s torso to his face.

She opened her mouth to speak, but gasped instead when he thrust home harder than before. “Fuck, Bull…”  He did it again, very much enjoying the way her tits bounced in reaction.  “Please, let me touch you…”

There was such an earnest need in her eyes and in her voice that Bull relented. Her biting that plump bottom lip of hers when he couldn’t lean down to nibble it was also massively unfair.  He let go of her hands, and they practically flew to his chest.  First, she pulled herself up by his shoulders, pressing as much of herself to him as possible.  Another strong thrust made her drop back to the floor with a whining gasp.  Her nails pulled over his shoulders, digging in just enough to make Bull groan.

Morgan slid her hands over his back again, finding the fresh scars from one of the demons in Crestwood. She kept her short nails arched back, dragging the pads of her fingers over his shoulders before skipping down to his stomach.  Bull was used to lovers being interested in his scars, but Morgan’s touch felt different.  Her interest wasn’t due to him being ‘wild’ or ‘untamed’ or some shit.  She knew that sometimes scars were more than just places where a wound had healed.  She carried memories in her scars the same as he did.  Somehow, knowing that changed the nature of the touch, each brush of her fingers somehow an acknowledgement of him and his past. 

Fingers still moving, Morgan realized that Bull’s nipple was well within her reach. She dropped one hand from him, using it to brace as she pushed up, dragging the flat of her tongue over the slightly darker, softer skin.  Bull’s thrust stuttered, and he made a low sound in the back of his throat.  When she licked his nipple again, she dragged her nails down his ribs, her breath fanning hot against his skin.  One of his arms wrapped around her back, callouses rough on her scratched skin, but Maker, it felt good.  She slid her arms as far around his wide chest as she could, clinging to him even as he pressed her to the floor, crowding her with his bulk.

Bull pulled back slowly, savoring the way her body clenched around him, almost as if trying to keep him seated inside. Then he thrust back in sharply, wringing a delightful little cry from her, the sound muffled into his chest.  Her nails dug into his back, dragging and spurring him on to a harder rhythm.  Her breathing was jolted by each thrust, lost in a storm of sensation, with Bull as her anchor.  Just then, Bull was the only thing between her and everything else.  Every life and death decision, every kill, every plea for help.  There was nothing but him.

She was struck by the sudden urge to kiss him, but looking up she knew she didn’t have such reach. Instead, she latched onto the meat of his pectoral, pinching the thick muscle between her teeth and sucking.  “Damn, that’s good!” he growled above her, and she bit him again.  While she was almost completely certain that he was still holding back, when he began to thrust in earnest, her cry was still loud and sharp.  Her nails raked his sides again, his answering growl filling her with satisfaction.  When she pulled back from his chest, she saw a dark purple-ish bruise.  She wouldn’t be the only one with marks, and Bull didn’t hide his under clothing and armor.

One of his hands left the spot where it braced beside her, sliding between them as he lifted his body above hers. Morgan whimpered at the loss of contact, but the sound cut into a shuddering moan as his questing fingers found her clit, swollen and far more sensitive.  One little pluck made her utter a string of mixed curses, her abdominal muscles tightening instantly.  Above her, Bull chuckled, continued to thrust his hips while his hand plucked at her again, feeling her clench around him.  His touch bordered on painful, body over-sensitized and drowning.  She felt the watchword rising up, lingering on her tongue.

But even as she balanced between pain and pleasure, feeling too much of both to make any sort of distinction, she knew that she wouldn’t say the word. As overwhelmed as she might be feeling, she couldn’t bear to stop it, not when it might be the only…  She tossed the thought out, raking her nails so sharply along Bull’s back that even she knew she’d broken skin.  Despite his shuddering groan, his finger didn’t stop working between them, pushing her towards another climax.  His hips didn’t stop either, each thrust jolting her, the slow glide of pleasure exchanged for a wet, slapping pace.  Crude and at the same time achingly perfect, filling her again and again.

Pleasure crested and fell in her over and over, making her cry out in frustration. “Easy,” Bull hushed, his thrusts slowing but losing none of their power.  “Just enjoy.”  Morgan could only whimper, head tossing from side to side.  A large hand tenderly stroked her cheeks.  “You look so good like this, Morgan,” he praised, voice a puff of ragged breath.  He could feel how close she was.  It really was a treat, to see the fabled Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, laid out under him, neck and shoulders covered in love bites, her heavy breasts bouncing with each thrust…

When he swore, it sounded more like a prayer than anything else, and Morgan had to open her eyes, feeling the beginnings of the wash of pleasure she felt like she’d been chasing for hours. Bull was watching her so intently, and she couldn’t focus her mind enough to read his expression.  Then she was falling, heat bursting outward and tightening hers limbs.  As her clenching cunt gripped him, Bull’s rhythm changed again, and he fucked her roughly through her climax, leaning over her, pressing her down. 

Even through her haze, Morgan was able to recognize that he was approaching his end. She locked her legs around him, holding him as tight as she could.  “Let me feel,” she murmured.  Bull let her words undo him, his hips stuttering in their rhythm as he came.

Morgan probably should have expected it, but the rush of heat overflowing between her legs, sliding down her thighs and ass, still coaxed sound from her. She felt intensely obcene and twice as satisfied.  Bull braced himself on his elbows, keeping most of his weight off the woman under him.  He heard her murmur something quiet and satisfied, and felt her pepper kisses across his chest.  Slowly, Bull pulled out of her, catching her lips in a kiss when he drew level with her face.  He nipped her bottom lip in parting, continuing a slow, methodical path down her body.

“What’re…? Oh.”  He parted her thighs, lowering his face between them to lick his cum from her skin.  He took his time, leaving kisses on skin he licked clean.  When his tongue found her sex, Morgan sucked in a breath, nearly flinching away.  But he moved so slowly and gently, the warmth of his tongue and breath soothing to what she knew would be sore in the morning.  She let her eyes close, feeling more like a collection of gelatinous goo, rather than an actual person with functional arms and legs.  Bull was probably used to such reactions from his partners, and simply laid out beside her, putting his arm over her belly.

Morgan knew that Bull couldn’t stay, that she _should_ be telling him to get dressed and leave.  But he fit so well against her.  Or she fit against him, she couldn’t be sure.  Whatever it was, it felt good, and she rolled onto her side, putting her back to his chest.  “Just stay a little while,” she murmured.  She could feel herself drifting, and knew that Bull would be gone when she woke up.  But no matter how casual her encounters, she had always been a cuddler.  Bull seemed happy to oblige, his fingers tracing slow, random patters below her breasts. 

Bull waited until her breathing had been slow and even for some time, and then waited just a little while longer. He was perfectly fine leaving the moment things were done, but he enjoyed cuddling just as much.  And, if he was honest, it felt good to have another body cuddled so close to him.  When he brushed a sweaty curl from Morgan’s neck and she didn’t flinch, it finally hit him how much she trusted him.  Going to sleep beside him, she felt safe enough that even a touch at her throat didn’t rouse her.  The weight of that trust was surprising, and he smiled, deciding to linger just a little while longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sweet maker this took forever. I swear I rewrote his chapter four times! PLEASE tell me what you think! Thank you so much for reading!


	16. Well, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT, okay, so it's done, and it's gonna be a long one. This is also the chapter where I fix stupid decisions Bioware made us make. I'm taking some liberties with magic and shit, so there's that. Also, everyone's greatest fears! FUN TIMES! I really hope you guys enjoy this!

Well, Shit:

 

When consciousness first returned to Morgan, she was sure that she was waking up after yet another fight, body bruised and painful. But as her senses sharpened, she realized that the ache was focused between her legs.  The pleasure of afterglow had faded, but she couldn’t help but smile.  No matter how sharply her cunt ached, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a moment of the previous night.  Memories towards the end were dim, but she was in bed now, her nightshirt and smalls laid next to her pillow.  She rolled over, one hand pressing between her legs.  Squinting through the shadows, she saw no blood on her fingers.  With her one worry taken care of, she stared up at the dark ceiling of her tent, grinning like a madwoman.

She felt… _good_.  There was no other word for it.  When was the last time she had felt just plain good?  Of course, the weight of times ahead was still there, but she felt like her head was finally _above_ the water.  Or at least tilted enough that she could breathe.  Sitting up was fine, and swinging her legs onto the floor twinged a bit.  Standing made her thighs throb with ache, both the muscles and joints protested the previous night’s abuse.  Morgan couldn’t scrape up even an ounce of regret.  With her muscles still stiff, walking over to the wash basin as more like hobbling.  After washing her face, she stretched, much to the dismay of her lower half.

It had been Josephine that gave her the routine of stretches, and Morgan found her mind drawn to the advisor as she moved, slowly working through the pain. What would Josephine have to say if she knew?  A wicked smile curved Morgan’s lips, imagining blushing and stuttering.  Josephine was too well bred to not be at least a _little_ flustered.  And what if it ever became public knowledge?  Again, Morgan felt a sharp sort of satisfaction at thinking of scandalized nobles, both Ferelden and Orlesian.  Then she sighed; the Inquisition depended too much on the support of those nobles to alienate them. 

Muttering curses under her breath, she dressed slowly. Bull had been right; pulling on her breeches _did_ sting.  As she dressed, she paced back and forth, trying to find a normal way of walking that didn’t _hurt_.  She knew that Bull had bedded a number of soldiers, and any one of them might recognize something familiar if Morgan was seen walking differently.  And Maker only knew what _Dorian_ would say or do.  Despite all that worry, regret still eluded her.  She lit a candle, sparing a moment to run her fingers over the vaguely hand-shaped bruises on her thighs before she dressed properly.  Even with the weight of daggers on her back, and knowing what lay ahead, when she stepped out of the tent, she was smiling.

 

000

 

Ahead, the soldiers marched with discipline, a war chant adding to the thunder of thousands of boots. The siege equipment rattled and groaned, gurns and brontos lowing as they tugged it over the sand.  Cullen was ahead with the vanguard, Morgan and her companions poised behind them for when they broke down the main gate.  Bull and Cassandra had put themselves ahead of her, like two guardian statues on either side of a gate.  Morgan had never felt safer.  The scratches peeking out from under Bull’s armor and the qunari war-paint—he’d called it vitaar—did wonders for her mood as well.  It also helped that the sandy ground made everyone walk a little differently.

Varric seemed interested in the qunari’s back as well. “Have fun last night, Tiny?” he said, having to raise his voice over the echo of voices.

Bull threw a wolfish grin over his shoulder at the other dwarf, one Morgan had seen many times before. But knowing that the smile was about her was entirely new.  “Oh you know, possibly our last night on earth,” he said, still grinning.

Morgan snorted, and Varric rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe that line worked on anyone,” he groaned.

“It was _her_ line, actually,” Bull sniffed. 

“So there’s someone out there just as cheesy as you?” Morgan said. He met her eyes and she felt a little curl of heat in her belly.

“Oh no,” Bull said seriously. “She’s much worse than I am.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “I find it hard to believe such a person exists.”

Morgan and Varric laughed, and Bull waggled his eyebrows at the Seeker until she rolled her eyes and looked away. A twinge abruptly lanced down Morgan’s inner thigh, and she stepped awkwardly.  Varric eyed the other dwarf and frowned.  “With all this money and influence, Hooks, you know you could probably have that bad hip taken care of, right?”

“Yes, but then I’d lose my roguish swagger,” Morgan said, thanking any god that listened that Varric assumed it was her bad hip that had made her nearly stumble. She covered her grin with her usual expression of pained annoyance.  “I’ll be able to ignore once I’m stabbing demons.”

“Let us hope that it is just the Wardens we face,” Cassandra said, and Morgan suddenly felt cold.

“I don’t want to kill Wardens, Cassandra,” Morgan said flatly.

“They allied themselves to a Magister!” The Seeker didn’t glance back, and Morgan frowned deeply at her armored back.

“Which is the most nug-fucking stupid thing they could have done,” Morgan agreed. “But they think they’re about to die, and that there will be no one left to stop another Blight.”  Mounting adrenaline boosted her anger.  “Say we wipe them out here, all of them.  And then Corypheus starts a Blight.  Who will stop it then?  The Inquisition?”

Cassandra finally looked back, and instead of anger, there was something torn and almost sad on her scarred face. “You forgive so easily,” she said quietly, before looking away.  Had that been envy in her voice?

“I can’t say I’d have done the same, were I them,” Morgan said. “And I think they’re stupid for trusting the Venetori, but I _understand_.”

“They _are_ the only ones that know how to stop Blights,” Bull said, fearing nothing from the Seeker.  Her sharp look rolled off him like water.

Varric opened his mouth to speak, but at a look from Cassandra, closed it again. Morgan sighed, remembering how close the two had come to a fistfight back at Skyhold.  “How about I put my daggers in Erimond’s face?” she cut in.  “I don’t think anyone will object to that.”  She glanced around, and there was silence.  “Good.  Stab the Magister.  I can do that.”

 

000

 

In a night that was sure to be full of unpleasant surprises, the first of them was actually a pleasant one, achingly so, even. While the columns of soldiers marched on, a couple of scouts came back, drawing a man in Warden armor between them.  He walked under his own power, submitting to the tight grip on his arms.  They didn’t release him when Morgan stopped, Bull and Cassandra already having their hands on their weapons, and Morgan could feel Dorian readying a spell in the ache of the Mark.

It was Felix. The hood came back and the pale Tevinter grinned down bashfully while Morgan blinked, and Dorian stared, open-mouthed.  “Dorian told me you died,” was all Morgan could think to say.

“Very nearly,” Felix said, his eyes flicking to Dorian for a moment. “But after speaking to the Magisterium, there was still so much going on, and Erimond—”

“You _cad_!”  Dorian shoved Cassandra and Bull aside, striding up to Felix and grabbing him by the front of his armor.  “You fucking _ass_!”  By the glint of the moon, Morgan could see tears in Dorian’s eyes.  “You let them tell me you were _dead_!”  He looked like he wanted to either hit Felix or hug him.  The soldiers holding Felix to Morgan in confusion.  She nodded, and they released their captive.  Instantly, the shorter man swept Dorian up into a fierce hug.  Morgan felt like she had stumbled into something not meant for public eyes, and looked away.

“I am so, _so_ sorry, Dorian,” Felix said, and now everyone felt like they were intruding.  “I had to find out what Erimond was up to, and I didn’t have much time left, so I—”

“So you joined the Wardens at the worst possible time in history,” Dorian scolded, even as he hugged his friend back tightly. He pulled back, holding Felix at arm’s length and looking him over.  “This is _so_ much better than that horrible yellow,” he finally said.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, her guard far from down. “You were a Grey Warden mage,” she said warily.  “How are you not all…”  She wave a hand at him, the other ready to reach for a dagger.

“Ah.” Felix released Dorian and brought his hands to the collar sticking out of his armor.  Undoing a few buttons revealed a thin band of metal, engraved in lettering that Morgan didn’t recognize.  “Suppressed my abilities.  I was decent with a polearm, so they took me.”  His already somber face darkened.  “You have to stop them, they—”

“Demon army,” Cassandra growled. “We are aware.  If you are to aid us, do so, but we do not have time to stand about talking.”

 

000

 

All Morgan could think about was how loud it was. She and her companions walked in line behind the battering ram, the chant of voices and the pounding of feet beating against her ears.  But it was more than noise, it was the very heartbeat of the Inquisition.  It was all the people that had fought to build it up from nothing, walking gladly to what could be their end.  She felt their hope and passion in every beat, in every syllable and shout.  Ahead, the ancient fortress loomed, the dark stone made pale by the light of two full moons.  Torches and magelight lit the battlements the sounds distant and urgent. 

A strange sort of calm stole over her, her hands lifting and drawing her daggers. The demon-slaying runes glowed with a dull golden light, power seeping into her fingers and creeping up her arms.  The Mark throbbed, echoing the magic of the mages around her, as well as reacting to whatever was working beyond the walls before them.  The throbbing soon became familiar, the sharp awareness of a Rift prickling her.  Despite the pain aching between her legs, her steps were solid and sure, the rushing in her veins a perfect mirror of the pounding heartbeat of the force around her.  She let her worries as Morgan Cadash fall away, the cool serenity of the mantle of Inquisitor settling heavy on her shoulders.

The change was visible to the others; the nervousness left her face, replaced by a steely resolve, eyes bright and hard. Shadows darkened her face, making the usually round features appear sharp and imposing.  It didn’t matter that she was shorter than nearly all the soldiers surrounding her, it didn’t matter that she was young.  Her anger and determination shown as bright as the Maker’s sunburst, her trust placed, without question, in the friends at her side, and the soldiers that had pledged their lives to the Inquisition.  All the cobwebs of lies and hurt that she had suffered vanished, and she looked around herself with pride.  Whether this was or wasn’t her last night alive, she was proud to live it alongside the people beside her.

 

000

 

At the gate, stones rained down from above, crashing into the unlucky few to step beyond the protection of raised shields. Others rushed in to take the place of their dead comrades, urging the battering ram closer and closer to the ancient gates.  Soldiers rode massive ladders as they were raised against the walls, leaping down among the Wardens.  Morgan could hear the screeching of demons, and saw flaming arrows picking at her people, the light winking in the dark as they toppled from the walls.  She swore revenge for each and every one of them.

It took only three strikes of the ram before the wooden gates splintered and gave way, Inquisition soldiers with heavy shields pushing through, hacking at the resisting Wardens. As they approached, Bull put himself instantly in front of Morgan with Cassandra, both of them lashing out with sword and axe.  There were mages, demons, and Warden warriors in the lower bailey, and they swarmed forward.  Bull braced himself and set his stance, letting Morgan run up his back to leap over his horns, landing with both daggers in the chest of a demon.  The runes flared brightly, inchor spraying.  The demon screamed and died.

A grin flashed across Morgan’s face as she spun away from a blast of fire, the Mark singing with heat. Barriers rose around them all as Dorian and Solas made it in.  Varric and Sera scrambled up steps to rain arrows and bolts from above, tossing in grenades after a warning shout.  Morgan wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn that one of the grenades was full of angry bees.  As the Inquisition poured into the bailey, the Wardens cried the retreat further into the fortress, leaving their fallen companions behind.  Cullen came forward, sword bloody. 

Flipping up his visor, he addressed Morgan. “You have your way in, Inquisitor,” he said, having to shout over the roar of battle around and beyond them.  “I suggest you use it.  We’ll guard your backs.”

Morgan nodded. “Keep the men safe,” she said, and something both happy and sad flickered across Cullen’s face.

“We know our duty, Inquisitor, we—” He broke off as several Inquisition soldiers were thrown into the bailey from above, their bodies crashed into the ground and did not move.  On the ledge above, a demon screeched and fled back.  “There’s too much resistance on the walls!  Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold.  Hawke is up there assisting, but I don’t know how long she can hold!”

Varric threw a brief gaze heavenward. “Maker’s balls; she went up a ladder, didn’t she?”  Cullen nodded and the dwarf shook his head.

Morgan just nodded. “Understood.”

 

000

 

There were more demons than expected, but they didn’t outnumber the Wardens.  Some came to the Inquisition’s aid and fought the demons that turned on them.  But then they drew back, wary and afraid.  Morgan begged them to stay safe, and continued forward. Coming up to one of the first choke points, Morgan saw a pair of Warden warriors backed into a corner by a mage holding a knife, already dripping blood.  The mage was flanked by demons, and two freshly dead Wardens lay nearby.  Rage burned in Morgan’s chest, and she screamed her challenge.  The puppet-mage didn’t react, but the two demons at his back did, shrieking their defiance. 

Ice burst and grew around the mage’s feet, halting their advance. Morgan saw Vivienne out of the corner of her eye, and smiled, turning the grin to Bull as he came up beside her.  His ax sliced through both demons in a single stroke, Morgan darting under the massive weapon to slice at the backs of the mage’s knees.  They went down without a sound, trying to turn and cast.  Morgan felt heat in her Mark, and cut the mage’s throat before they could unleash the flames.  It was Blackwall that stepped forward, Morgan watching him and Alistair help the other Wardens to their feet, urging them to stay back.

The further they got into the fortress, the more demons they faced. They met up with Hawke and Alistair on the ramparts after scouring demons away from the ladders.  Their advance after that came to a screeching halt when they came upon not one, but _two_ massive pride demons.  Bull and Varric swore loudly.  The first time Morgan had faced such a creature, she had still been terrified of the mark, firing with her bow and praying that Cassandra wouldn’t imprison her again.  She was still scared, but as she looked around, watching her friends and companions ready themselves, she smiled.  What could she not accomplish with such people at her side?

Setting her sights on the mages that had summoned the demons, Morgan broke a flask of smoke, darting among the shadows as she scaled piles of supplies and discarded armor. There were bodies too, all with the throats cut.  Bull watched her appear behind the first mage, and their red-tinged eyes go wide as a dagger appeared through their throat.  Sera took the other in the eye, cackling madly.  The pride demons were flanked by greater and lesser shades, and they swarmed the group. 

Darting past them, Morgan went straight for the closest pride demon, her hair standing on end as electricity charged the air. Slipping between their legs, she cut at the thick hide, feeling ichor splash her and hearing the demon roar above.  Coming out on the other side, she ducked behind Cassandra as the Seeker raised her shield against a blast of fire.  More mages.  Morgan let Cassandra and Alistair call orders, both veteran soldiers that knew far more about tactics than Morgan herself.  She let them direct her, feeling the aches in her body sing with exertion.  It was glorious. 

When the first pride demon took its final blow, Morgan was harried by a dying shade that grabbed her ankle. It dragged her to her knees, just in time for the pride demon’s claws to rake over her back.  It caught on her pauldrons, sending one of the metal pieces flying and sending her tumbling.  Only the death grip she had on her daggers kept them from being thrown from her hands, and even that wavered when her head struck a crate against the wall.  A shadow fell over her, and she came surging back up.  Only to find that it was Varric, his back to her and Bianca firing a hail of explosive bolts into an advancing pair of demons.

“You wanna explain that mark on your neck, Hooks?” His voice was light and easy—almost joyful—despite the doom that swarmed around them.

Confused, Morgan’s hand when to her neck, and found that the demon’s claws had opened her high collar enough to expose several of Bull’s more severe love bites. She didn’t have time for blushing, and fixed her grip on her daggers.  “Nope!” she shouted over her shoulder as she charged back in, catching Bull’s eye and giving a few quick signals to indicate her direction.  Catching the last pride demon’s eye, she danced in and out of reach, pushing it back and back until it struck an ice trap.  The ice spread over it in a blink, turning it into a rearing statue.  Morgan dove out of the way as Bull leaped and struck, his ax shattering the demon into pieces.

Vivienne appeared at Morgan’s elbow. “Are you alright, my dear?”  The mage was magnificent, eyes darkly lined and lips nearly plum-colored.  Never had a woman been more fierce and beautiful, and Morgan smiled.

“Yes, ma’am!” she said, grinning despite the ache in her head and down her back.

 

000

 

The Rift was monstrous, pulsing with power so strong that Morgan’s entire left arm ached. As they entered the courtyard, they found that the Rift was still blessedly closed, but that appeared to be about to change.  Warden mages—eyes the same glowing red as their puppet brothers—stood around it, outstretched hands glowing with power.  On the altar, she saw Erimond, and an older female mage in Warden armor, her close-cropped hair pale gray, haggard face marked with old scars.  Another Warden lay dead at her feet, his blood swirling in the air before the woman.  Erimond quickly stepped forward, gesturing to the Warriors that lingered below the altar, clustered nervously together.

“Stop them!” he cried, all righteous indignation. Morgan wanted to tell Varric to shoot him.  “We must complete the ritual!”

“No!” Morgan yelled, stepping forward. Fears bubbled under the surface, kept down by the adrenaline of battle.  Bull would not face a demon army, Cassandra would not end up a broken woman reciting the Chant in a dark, damp cell.  She would _not_ see them die!  “Clarel, _please_!  This is utter madness!”  Her voice cracked, desperation tugging at her face.

“Madness?” Erimond scoffed. “Stopping the Blight?  Hah!”  The Warden Warriors approached, swords drawn, but not one of them looked like their heart was in it.  Erimond continued, righteous disdain dripping from every syllable.  “Yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice.  Hate me for that if you must, but _do not_ hate the Wardens for doing their duty!”

Despite the pain on her face, the woman—Morgan assumed she was Commander Clarel—stepped forward to speak. “We make the sacrifices that no one else will.  Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them!”  Even as she shouted, Morgan could see the horror in her eyes, and the slight tremble of the bloody knife in her hand.

All of Alistair’s feelings seemed to bubble over at once, pain and anger warring for dominance on his face. “And then your Tevinter ally binds your mages to Corypheus!” he spat, drawing his sword and taking several steps forward.  The Warden’s facing them visibly recoiled; they all knew exactly who he was.

His words served to strip every emotion from Clarel’s face, leaving only shock and surprise. Her voice was barely audible, but Morgan saw her lips frame the now familiar name.  “Corypheus?  But he’s dead…”

Erimond leaned in close, the perfect picture of the concerned advisor. “These people will say _anything_ to shake your confidence, Clarel!”

Silenced stretched, tight and trembling with tension as conflict twisted the Warden Commander’s face. Morgan bit her lip until she tasted blood, praying to Andraste, the Maker, Mythal; any god that would listen.  Her hope shattered to pieces when Clarel spoke again.

“Bring it through.” The mages around the Rift glowed bright with power, throwing their hands forward as light poured from them.  Besides their glowing eyes, each face was as blank as new paper.  The Mark flared, and Morgan bit back tears as she drew her daggers once more.  The remaining Warden Warriors came forward as well, slow and uncertain.  Behind her, Morgan heard Hawke swear in frustration, her magic billowing around her.

“Please!” the Champion cried. “He is controlling your brothers and sisters with blood magic!  He has taken their minds!”  She sounded as desperate as Morgan felt.  “You _must_ see it!”

Pain seemed to have the won the battle on Alistair’s face. “I’m a Warden; I want and end to the Blight as much as you!  If this were truly the way I would be _here_ , at your _side_!”  Erimond paid no mind to the pleas, still standing close to Clarel’s side, whispering in her ear as the Rift grew wider and wider.  Glancing back at the mages behind her, Morgan assumed that from their grim expressions, that something quite unpleasant was on the way.

“Please!” Morgan cried again. “I have no quarrel with the Wardens!  I have spared those that did not wish to fight!  I _saved_ them when Mages lost control of their demons!  I don’t want to kill Wardens, but you’re being _used_!”  She turned her eyes to the hesitantly approaching warriors.  “Some of you know it, too, don’t you?”

A man with dark skin and heavy freckles was the only one to meet her eyes directly. “The mages that’ve done the ritual?”  His accent was coarse and deeply Ferelden, changed slightly by missing teeth.  He shook his head.  “They’re not right.  They were my friends, and now they’re like puppets on a damn string!” 

There was real venom in his words, but his head lowered quickly when Clarel spoke out above them. “You cannot let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!”

Bitter anger burned in Morgan’s eyes, and beside her, Bull heard the creak of metal and leather as her hands clenched around her daggers. “He’s not _afraid_!” Morgan spat.  “ _You_ are!  You’re fucking terrified that you ordered all these loyal soldiers to die for _nothing_!”  It echoed her own fear, constant and gnawing.

“This is not the way!” Alistair begged, tears glimmering in the corners of his eyes. All he’d fought for, all that his friends had _died_ for…  “I honor your bravery but this is _not_ the answer!  You have to see that you’ve been tricked!”  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, faces slowly turning back to the dais, where a dead warrior laid on the altar, throat slit and the blue of his armor stained red.  The blood on Clarel’s dagger was his. Something akin to doubt flickered across her scarred face.

Erimond practically grabbed her arm. “Clarel, we’ve come so far!  You’re the only one that can do this!”

Now, she recoiled from him, drawing away from the Magister’s touch. “Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges, to avoid further bloodshed.”  Her eyes were hard, but her face was passive.  Morgan knew a mask when she saw one.

Erimond’s own mask dropped, turning to a glare. All pretense of friendship was gone.  “Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally.”

 _‘No,’_ Morgan thought, heart jumping into her throat. _‘No, he better fucking not!’_

The Magister turned, grinning the same grin that had royally pissed her off in the Western Approach. He turned, striking his staff against the stone, magic rolling off of him.  “My master thought that you might come her, Inquisitor!  He sent me _this_ to welcome you!”

The cry that tore through the sky instantly tightened Morgan’s chest, and for a moment, all she could see was Haven in flames. A shape detached itself from the dark sky above, dropping into view on wings that had no business keeping the beast aloft.  Red fire bloomed like a flower in the sky, and Morgan felt an arm around her middle yanking her back.  She and Bull rolled and tumbled away as the strange crimson fire burst against stone with a sound like shattering glass.  Heat crashed over her, the Mark screaming with unknown magic.  Vivienne stepped instantly in front of them, throwing barriers up with a wave of her hand.  As the beast circled, Morgan and Bull scrambled back to their feet, seeing Clarel recoil in horror, bringing her staff before her, eyes wide.

“I am _so_ stabbing that bastard in his fucking _face_!” Morgan growled.

“Not if I shoot ‘im first!” Sera snapped, arrows already dripping poison. “Stupid frigging Archdemon!  Stupid frigging Magisters!  Stupid frigging… Fuck!”

The Archdemon landed, ancient stone cracking under its weight, debris going in all directions. Morgan didn’t know what made her look away from the obvious threat, but for some reason she turned her head back to the dais.  Clarel was looking in mute horror at her fellow Warden, dead by her hand on the altar.  Then her eyes turned to Erimond’s back, and caught fire with rage.  She swept her staff, and a burst of force struck Erimond across the back, throwing his weapon to the side and sending him toppling.  The diseased dragon’s head snapped away from the Inquisition forces, just in time for a _massive_ blast of electricity to strike it in the chest.

Several things happened at once. The corrupted Archdemon screamed in rage, sending a blast of red fire at the Commander.  A barrier appeared around her as she ducked and rolled, managing to keep a hold of her staff, as the beast took flight again.  Morgan saw the pale shape of Erimond begin to flee, Clarel charging after him.  At the same time, another pair of pride demons burst forth, Morgan’s Mark flaring brightly.  Before vanishing deeper into the castle, Clarel called out her orders.

“Help the Inquisitor!” Her Orlesian voice rang out clear and hard above the growing din, but then she was gone, chasing after the Magister that had clearly lost control of the Archdemon.

Before Morgan could even wrap her mind around the choice before her, Vivienne called out. “Inquisitor, take the others with you!”  Blackwall came up beside her, and then Cole appeared from thin air, daggers glittering with lightning and flames.

Sera swore loudly. “Piiiiss!  Sab ‘im good for me, Hooks!” she shouted, and Morgan had never wanted to hug anyone more. 

Dorian put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, and then pushed. “We can handle these bastards,” he said, giving the worst excuse for an unconcerned smile that Morgan had ever seen.  “Go give my countryman a good stabbing.  If Clarel doesn’t get to him first.”  He rounded on Cassandra and Bull as they came up to flank the Inquisitor, Solas and Varric behind them.  “If any of you die, I shall resurrect you and force your spirit to be a court jester in Varric’s blasted Kirkwall!”

So they ran. Hawke had killed dragons, and Morgan wasn’t about to argue with the Champion of Kirkwall if she wanted to tag along.  She heard Varric say something to Solas, and the elf actually laughing back, but couldn’t parse the words.  The Archdemon was following, apparently as intent on Clarel as she was on Erimond.  The Warden Commander left a trail of dead demons in her wake, the Mark singing with the power of her magic.  All Morgan could think about was how it would feel when she sunk her daggers into Erimond’s kidneys, and a mad sort of grin began to pull at her face.  He would die, and he would scream and scream and scream, just like each of the Wardens he had sent needlessly to their deaths. 

Then she heard a shout behind her, and turned to see a Greater Terror climbing over the wall, the claws not gripping the wall wrapped around Bull’s leg. As he threw his weight back, struggling not to get pulled over the edge, he was unable to swing his axe.  All at once, Erimond was gone, all her hatred for the demon surging to the forefront of her mind.  It fucking _dared_ to threaten her friend, the man who had listened and never judged, who had _been there_ …  No.  She would not watch him die again.  She wouldn’t just stand by this time.

The Mark pulled her hand forward, light flaring green and gold. A Rift _opened_ above the terror, smaller and more violent than the ones they usually encountered.  Bits of the terror began to break off, swirling into the Rift as it screamed.  It let go of Bull, trying to keep its grip on the battlements.  But the small Rift continued to tear at it, pulling it apart and finally sucking it into the depths of the Fade.  The miniature Rift vanished with a sound like cannon fire, drawing in on itself before the explosion of sound.

As Bull came back to his feet and they all started moving again, Morgan could feel their eyes on her back, and she didn’t blame them. But they all kept running, Bull letting Morgan lead but sticking to her as surely as her shadow.  The Archdemon was following, and more than once they had to duck into room or tumble across stone to avoid a blast of red fire. 

After one such narrow escape, Morgan looked over her shoulder at Bull. “You always wanted to fight a dragon, right?” she panted, for some reason thinking of his reaction when they had seen one kill a giant on the Storm Coast.

“Not _exactly_ what I had in mind!” the qunari shouted back, and Morgan laughed.

“We get through this, a real dragon should be easy!”

“That is a lie!” Cassandra said, at the same time that Hawke and Varric yelled, “bullshit!”

 

000

 

They caught up to Clarel and Erimond on a bridge that was as massive as it was ancient. Erimond’s back was to the deep fall from the Abyssal Ledge, and he tossed burst after burst of flame at the advancing Warden.  Clarel’s barrier was impenetrable, and lightning crackling around her.  The Mark sang with her power and rage.  She was shouting, but Morgan couldn’t hear what she was saying.  All she knew was that the Warden was so very far ahead of them, and that she was suddenly afraid.  Clarel had Erimond down, their positions swapped but none of her power lost.  The magister must have been speaking again, because he was suddenly skidding across the stones, electricity crackling along his twitching limbs. 

Alistair screamed as the Archdemon landed and closed its jaws around Clarel, lifting her and shaking her like a terrier with a rat. It took flight, wheeling around to crash down on the towering arches Morgan and the others had come through.  It spat out the Warden Commander, who tumbled limply to lay halfway between Morgan and itself.  Panic stood her every hair on end as the beast crawled down, dragging its heavy, twisted body over the stones.  Fear pounded in her veins and clawed at her chest, and she found herself moving backward with the others, forced towards the drop. 

There was movement at the beast’s feat, and Morgan’s eyes widened, torn away to see Clarel dragging herself forward, legs broken and twisted, and a heavy path of blood in her wake. She was speaking, and the Mark screamed with her power.  She was directly under the advancing creature now, and pushed over onto her back, the blue and white of her armor stained purplish-red.  She lifted a glowing hand, and Morgan knew what was happening.  The Archdemon’s body bunched, coiling like a hunting cat before it pounced.  The moment it did, energy exploded out from Clarel’s body, shooting upwards like a spear and striking it again.  The explosion shook the stone beneath their feet and sent the massive creature flying.

Flipped and sliding, it roared in pain and anger as it tumbled towards them like a damn earth quake. Morgan felt a weight hit her, and smelled hot metal and leather as she rolled to the side.  She was aware of the Archdemon sliding past, claws scraping and drawing sparks from the stone as it slid over the edge.  Morgan and Bull came to their feet, and Bull blinked when Morgan stepped between him and the slowly falling monster.  The ground was still shaking under them, even as it vanished over the edge.  Morgan realized that the ancient stone wouldn’t be standing much longer, and then she was falling, cracking stone rolling under, around, and suddenly above her. 

She saw her friends in the air as well, little spots of color among gray stone. And Bull, face frozen as he stared at the black abyss below.  Her body spun in the air, forcing her to look down at the same horror, and she screamed.  Not in terror, but pure frustration.  She had tried so fucking _hard_!  All at once, all she could think of was Hinter, waiting for a master that would never return to him.  Anger burned into her, claws raking through her mind until the energy of the Mark stabbed back through, the same pull drawing her hand forward as the air rushed past.

 _‘A Rift!’_ The thought came faster than the air rushing past, and she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing all her energy into the Mark, praying that it would listen.  Falling through a Rift was better than dying.  Right?

 

000

 

 _‘This is getting old,’_ Morgan thought, consciousness taking its sweet time in returning to her. _‘Just once, I’d like to start a new situation_ without _being knocked out.’_ Spreading her hands out, she felt stone under her, loose rocks and pebbles rough and sharp under her fingers.  Her eyes came open slowly, and she saw Bull’s horned silhouette leaning over her, the sky behind him dark and strangely lit.  As she sat up, Bull’s hand slid around to rest on her back, offering support.  “This is nug-shit,” she muttered, leaning forward as her head swam.  “Did we die?”

“If we did, then the Chantry owes me an apology,” Hawke’s voice said from somewhere to Morgan’s left. “This looks _nothing_ like the Maker’s bosom.”

“No.” That was Solas.  “This is the Fade.”

Morgan forced her eyes open, turning her head in the direction of the mage’s voice. “We’re _where_?!” she croaked, blinking rapidly.  Solas turned, opening his mouth to speak, and Morgan froze.  His already pale skin was nearly the color of snow, veins dark beneath the bleached flesh.  And, here and there, small red crystals grew, pushing through cloth and skin while a subtle red glow lingered in his eyes.  Swallowing the cry that rose in her throat, Morgan’s head snapped around to look at Bull.  “No…” she whimpered.  Red lyrium grew out of his skin, eyes glowing that same unearthly color.  “No no no no…”

“Boss, what’s—?”

Solas was instantly crouching beside them, grasping Morgan’s jaw with a gentle hand and forcing her to look at him again. “Inquisitor!  Tell me what you see,” he demanded.

“Lyrium!” Morgan whispered, feeling tears in her eyes. “You’re all covered in red lyrium…”  Her voice cracked and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“What’re you talking about?” Varric was both confused and concerned, stepping forward to crouch.  “I mean, it’s growing out of the walls but...”  He paused when everyone looked at him like he’d grown a second head.  “There’s… there’s no red lyrium, is there?”

Solas’s frown deepened. “The demon Erimond meant to summon; I believe it to be a demon of fear.”  He looked to Bull.  “What do you see?”

The qunari’s eye widened slightly, then narrowed as he frowned deeply. “So… you guys aren’t seeing this fog?”

“It just looks like Denirim,” Hawke said stiffly. “After the Blight, it…  All smoked out and dead.”

“The Calling is louder than ever now,” Alistair said, pressing a hand to his temple and squeezing his eyes shut. “There’s almost words to it…”

Morgan set her jaw so hard that her teeth creaked in protest. “So it’s making us see things.  That is a giant, heaping pile of the most festering, blight-infested nug-shit.”

In a crouch beside her, Cassandra snorted. “I am inclined to agree with you, Morgan.”  With a grunt, she hefted sword and shield and pushed back to her feet. 

Varric did the same beside her, shifting his grip nervously on Bianca. “Ruffles is going to kill me,” he muttered.  Cassandra gave him a look, and he sighed.  “She made me promise to take care of you.”  Instead of the cutting response everyone expected, the Seeker _blushed_ , hand lifting reflexively to where a blue strip of silk peeked out of her collar.  She quickly tucked it away again, but it was enough to let Morgan smile a little. 

“Solas,” she said, standing and readying her daggers. “What we meet here, no matter what it looks like, is either an illusion or a demon, right?”

“In all likelihood,” the mage agreed.

“Good,” the dwarf said, filling her voice with as much businesslike bravado as she could manage. “I’d say we’re all good at killing demons by now.  Let’s get moving before whoever’s putting on this shitshow decides to come down and ask us what we think.”

 

000

 

As they moved, they were all wary and watchful of their surroundings, but Solas bore no trace of the fear that seemed to be present on every other face. “This is _fascinating_ ,” he finally said, still staring around him, walking at the head of the group.  “This is _not_ the area I would have chosen, but to walk physically in the Fade…”  He trailed off into what could only be described as a wistful sigh.

Morgan stared at the elf’s back in disbelief, and beside her, Bull rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, this must be a dream come true for your crazy ass,” he growled.

Solas laughed. Actually _laughed_.  “Yes,” he agreed, “literally!”

“I don’t suppose you have any words of wisdom you’d like to impart on this part of the Fade?” Morgan muttered.

The joyous, scholarly fascination vanished from Solas. “Why would I ever have voluntarily come to _this_ part of the Fade?” he scoffed.  “The demon that controls this area is clearly a very powerful fear demon.”  His frown deepened.  “I suggest you remain wary of its manipulations and prepare for what is certain to be a fascinating experience.”

“Fascinating, he says,” Bull grumbled, and Morgan was inclined to agree. Then, in a mocking voice, “hey, Chief!  Let’s join the Inquisition!  Good fights for a good cause!”  It was a clear, if terrible, imitation of Krem.  Then as himself, “I dunno, Krem.  I hear there are demons!”  He waved a hand, putting on a face as he spoke as his lieutenant again.  “Ah, don’t worry, Chief, I’m sure we won’t see many!”  He trailed off into a long string of grumbling curses, and aggressively frustrated noises.

“Krem said that you went out of your way to pick a side this time, Bull,” she pointed out.

“No, this is _clearly_ all Krem’s fault.  I just wanted there to stop being a demon-crapping hole in the sky.”  His face was petulant, but she could see the fear in his eye. 

“Bull, how dense is the fog?” Morgan asked gently. The few times he’d mentioned Seheron, here had been a time when he mentioned fog warriors.  Something very significant had happened in the fog back on that god-forsaken island for the demon to be showing him fog.

His gaze touched hers briefly, and even with his mind running in all directions, trying to be aware of everything, there was something calming in those familiar, hazel green eyes. He sighed.  “Can’t see more than ten, maybe fifteen paces ahead,” he murmured.  “I can… hear shit in it, like people moving around just out of sight.”

“I can see just fine,” Morgan said, putting herself where Bull could see her. “I can watch for you.  Nothing can sneak up on you in the fog if I see them coming miles away and stab the fuck out of them.” 

He stared at her for a long time, noticing how he wasn’t able to hold his gaze for long. He knew she still had bad dreams about Redcliffe, and now she was having it all played out in front of her again.  But, apparently, none of that mattered because he had mentioned Fog Warriors in passing once, and she was so damn smart she’d already guessed that something shitty had happened to him in fog.  None of her pain mattered now that someone that she…  His brain stuttered to a halt.  Bull had _known_ that they were friends, that she _trusted_ him.  But suddenly know that she fucking _cared_ about him…  He wasn’t sure how to react to that.

They walked in a tight formation, trying not to jump at the many echoes and whispers of sound. Some sounded like screams, others laughter, dancing at the edge of perception.  Morgan had hoped that the skin-crawling feeling of wrongness would leave her alone, but it never abated.  Red lyrium winked and glittered everywhere now, growing out of the walls, out of her friends…  She saw Bull back in Redcliff, hand reaching out as the blood drained away from him.  Her stomach lurched, and she jerked her head away

Glancing over at Varric, she saw that his ruddy face had gone pale under its usual tan, lips tight and eyes never lingering in one place for long. Cassandra walked close to the other dwarf, hands clenched on sword and shield, looking like she was about to be sick.  Hawke just looked angry, and Alistair’s face couldn’t seem to decide what expression to wear.

“I told you, Hawke” Varric finally said. “Worse luck than you.”

The older woman through a slightly sympathetic look in Morgan’s direction. “He wasn’t kidding,” she said.

“I haven’t had to fight a horde or rampaging qunari, yet,” Morgan said. Then she glanced at Bull, and couldn’t help but smile.  “You’re almost a horde by yourself, though.”

“That’s hurtful, Boss,” Bull said gravely. “I’m at _least_ a horde-and-a-half!”  Cassandra snorted, and Morgan felt a swell of gratitude wash over her.  If she had to be stuck in the Fade, she couldn’t have asked for better company.

 

000

 

The Fade was eerily empty, despite the constant cries and grumbling roars that assaulted Morgan’s ears. The others seemed to be hearing noises, too, as every now and then someone would confirm that there had indeed been a noise.  At first, it was just wordless wailing, pained voices that never ceased.  But the further they went, the clearer the cries became.  Morgan heard her name again and again.  She began counting her steps, picturing how each number look in her head.  Every now and then, Bull would twitch, bringing his ax up as something drew his attention.

Each time he did, Morgan would look up, scanning the green-black landscape for anything. “There’s nothing,” she would say each time, and realized that it wasn’t just for Bull’s benefit.  In the moments where the fog didn’t seem to reach for him, he’d look down at her.  He knew she felt his gaze, but she wouldn’t look back up.  She wouldn’t look at anyone if she could avoid it.  To see someone so strong reduced to such basic fear…  He was going to kill the fear demon.  The asshole had it coming.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed, but after a while, Morgan came to a sudden halt, staring ahead of her with wide, confused eyes. When Bull looked ahead, he could only just make out the vague shape of a figure standing against a looming rock face.  He saw Chantry robes, and instantly thought of Mother Giselle.  But as he edged forward, he saw a pale face looking out, and the red and white robes were adorned with far too much gold for it to be the Revered Mother from Skyhold.  Morgan had gone pale and still beside him, her hand moving towards him.  The only thing that stopped her from taking his hand was the iron grip she had on the handle of her dagger.          

“That… that cannot…” Alistair was dumbfounded.

The woman smiled warmly. “I greet you, Warden,” she said, Orlesian voice soft and kind.  Her eyes slid over to Hawke.  “And you, Champion.”

For the first time since they had met, Morgan saw Cassandra step forward with uncertainly, disbelief painted clearly across her face. When she spoke, the hope in her words was heartbreaking.  “Divine Justinia?  Most Holy?” 

The Divine’s gaze softened, turning almost sad. “Cassandra…”

Morgan had to swallow twice before her mouth would cooperate. “Cassandra, you knew the Divine.  Is… is it her?”  Her voice came out as a whispered croak.  She knew the robes, and had a vague idea of what the Divine had looked like, but…

Pain and hope passed across the Seeker’s face in equal measure. “I…  I do not know.  It is said that the souls of the dead pass through the Fade, and sometimes linger, but…”  It was her turn to swallow, forcing her face to harden into the familiar steely mask.  “But we know that spirits lie.  Be wary.”

“As much as I would like to think otherwise, it is unlikely that the Divine survived,” Alistair said. “It is likely that we face a spirit… or a demon.”

The woman that appeared to be the Divine gave a strange sort of smile, of the kind you gave a naïve child. “You think my survival impossible, and yet, here you all stand, physically in the Fade, but alive.”  She shook her head.  “In truth, proving my existence either way would require time that you do not have.

Bull moved slightly in front of Morgan, a protective gesture that was both endearing and annoying. “No, see, it’s real easy.  I’m a person, and _you_ are…?”

“Here to help you,” the maybe-Divine said. Morgan bit her lip, trying to dredge up some memory of the woman, even if just a glimpse from afar.  Any effort to remember events directly before the explosion at the Conclave had always yielded nothing.  Then she realized that the maybe-Divine was looking at her.  “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

Morgan opened her mouth, then paused, eyes narrowing as Bull bristled beside her, bringing his axe in front of him once more. “The real Divine would have no way of knowing that I’d been made Inquisitor.”

The spirit smiled again, as if she had expected such a response. “I know, because I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus.”  Morgan’s narrowed eyes widened, surprise pushing past suspicion.  Was that why she couldn’t remember?  Her memories had been _stolen_?  The spirit continued speaking, looking away and seeming to repress a shudder.  “It is the nightmare you forget upon waking.  It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.”  The spirit’s eyes lifted again.  “The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes?  It’s work.”

Alistair’s lip curled, handsome face twisted into what could only be hatred. “I’d like to have a few words with this ‘Nightmare’ about _that_.”

Justinia smiled at him, both sad and fond. “And you will have your chance, brave Warden.  This place of darkness is its lair.”

“So Corypheus has demons at his beck and call, too? How is he managing that?”  Hawke’s hands were flexing nervously, tapping rhythmically on the grip of her staff.

“I wish that I had more answers for you, Champion, but I do not know how he commands his army of demons. His power may come from the Blight itself.”  Again, she pinned Morgan with a stare that such a gently speaking woman had no business having.  “But the Nightmare serves willingly, for Corypheus has brought much terror to his world.  He was one of the Magisters who unleashed the First Blight upon this world, was he not?  Every child’s cry as the Archdemon circles, every dwarf’s whimper in the Deep Roads…  The Nightmare as fed well.”

Morgan swallowed, hard. “That big demon that Erimond was trying to bring through back at the castle?”

“Yes,” said the maybe-Divine.

“It’s nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Well… shit.” There was nothing else to say, really.  And she couldn’t even bring herself to feel surprised.  Since well before the conclave, she had a lived a life where whatever _could_ go wrong, _would_ go wrong.  That hadn’t changed, but the scale of events had certainly expanded.

Bull glared in a vaguely skywards direction. “Of fucking _course_ it is,” he muttered.

The spirit seemed not to pay him any attention, still focused on the Inquisitor. “When you entered the Fade at Haven, the Nightmare took a part of you.  Before you do anything else, you _must_ recover it.”  She took a step forward, and somehow stepped past Bull, arm lifting to brush a fingertip across Morgan’s brow before anyone could so much as cry out.

Bull caught her as she crumpled, using his other arm to try and shove the Divine away. But she was standing out of reach, as if she had ever moved. All but baring his teeth at the spirit, he looked down at Morgan.  Beneath closed lids, her eyes danced and flicked rapidly, facial muscles twitching.  Before he could growl accusations, Morgan’s eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a greedy breath as she flailed back into a sitting position.  For a few moments, she sat in silence, breathing hard. 

“Boss?” Bull squeezed her shoulder.  “Morgan, hey.”

“I’m… I’m alright,” she breathed, eyes slowly lifting to stare up at Justinia.  “The Wardens… they…”  She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, and refused to look at Alistair.  “I was looking around and you… I heard someone calling for help.”  Her eyes lifted hesitantly to the Divine.  “It was you… the Divine…  The Wardens were holding you with magic… Corypheus…”  Bull’s hand was tight on her shoulder, still holding her close.

“You’re not seriously going to believe this thing, are you?”

Morgan didn’t seem to hear him, still staring at the maybe-Divine. “It was Corypheus’s orb that gave me the Mark…  Not Andraste…”  Her voice cracked, and Bull realized too late that she _had_ believed.  She had believed herself chosen.  He looked between Morgan and the spirit and growled.  She had believed herself chosen for this, that there had been a _reason_ for all her pain, and now…  Morgan’s face was blank, eyes staring ahead at nothing.

“Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil,” explained the Divine. “He would use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the gates of the Black City.  Not for the Old Gods he once worshiped, but for himself.”  Morgan slowly extracted herself from Bull, pulling herself back to her feet as the spirit continued speaking.  “You interrupted the ritual, and the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you, instead.”

Pain tightened in Morgan’s chest, and she shook her head. “Alexius was right… it was an accident.  I _was_ just a mistake.”  A rueful, sour smile pulled at her lips.  She should have known better.  No goddess would have chosen _her_ as their Herald.  She wasn’t good enough, would never _be_ good enough.

“If you believe in the Maker, then you believe that he made everything in this world,” Justinia said. “ _Including_ your accident.”  Morgan looked away.  “Whatever the case, you cannot leave this place until you regain what the Nightmare took from you.  I could only recover that one piece myself.  The others…” she turned, gesturing to the path ahead, “I must lead you to.  It knows that you are here, now.  You must move quickly.  I will prepare the way ahead.”  Morgan only glanced away for a moment, but it was long enough for the spirit to vanish without a trace.

They all stood in silence, staring at the rock where she had been. It was Hawke that broke the quiet.  “Well that was… interesting.”  She looked around at the others, trying not to focus on the vaguely familiar shapes of burnt out buildings dotted among the cliffs.  She knew it wasn’t real, but knowing only helped so much.  “I never met the Divine.  Do you think it could have been her?”

Solas, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange with the spirit, finally spoke. “We fell into the Fade and survived; there is no saying for certain that the same did not happen to Divine Justinia.  Or, it could be a spirit that so strongly identifies with the woman, that it believes itself to be her.  If that is the case, how can we say that it is not?  Either way, she seemed to genuinely want to help us.”

“That’s great and all,” Bull grumbled, sticking close to Morgan as they started moving again. “But this Nightmare is the thing currently scaring the shit out of me.”  She didn’t meet his eyes when he looked at her.  “It preys on people by scaring them, then stealing their memories. That’s _low_ , even for a demon.”

“It is probably ancient,” Solas murmured. “Fear is a very old, very strong feeling.  Such a creature would predate spirits of love, pride, compassion… every emotion except, perhaps, desire.”

“Well _I_ desire to just get the fuck out of here,” Bull muttered.

“After what it’s done to the Wardens, it’s going to learn to fear for itself!” Alistair’s kind, slightly awkward demeanor had evaporated, anger boiling over and twisting his handsome face.  He couldn’t look at Morgan.  “You said the Divine called to you for help…  What… what did you see?”

The knot of tension between her shoulders was outright painful now, the ache of guilt tightening her chest. Morgan didn’t want to be the one to tell him, didn’t want to cause him more pain…  “Corypheus had already enslaved them,” she heard herself say.  “They were puppets…”  Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard.  But she had no use for tears.  Tears would not slay the Nightmare.  Closing her eyes, she felt the thrum of the demon-slaying runes in her daggers, and how they had felt fighting demons in the fortress.  “It dies tonight.  I don’t care what I have to do, it’s _dying_.”

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re fucking scary when you get mad, Hooks?” he said, locking a fresh load of bolts into Bianca.  “You’re usually so damn sweet.”

“How’s the saying go?” Hawke said. “Demons run when a good man goes to war?”

“I don’t want them to run,” Morgan growled. “I want them to _die_.”

“Yup. Totally not scary.”

 

000

 

 

The path laid out before them was full of twists and turns. One moment it was barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, the next a whole army could have walked through.  And always, no matter what the Nightmare had them see, rocks and pillars towered above them, statues leaning in over the path, watching with deep, empty eyes.  The massive Rift seemed to be getting larger, and Morgan hoped fervently that it was actually because they were getting closer.

The red glow of lyrium was always at the corner of her vision, and every now and then, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw one of her companions stumble. Whenever she looked, however, they were still continuing cautiously forward.  The Divine floated ahead of them, and the image of the Most Holy floating through the landscape was bizarre enough to be almost comical.  Despite the echoing cries that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, they went some time without encountering any spirits.  Or demons.  Or anything, for that matter.  When they did, Morgan nearly screamed.

Whatever they faced, they had taken the forms of people she knew, all covered in growths of red lyrium. Minaeve had gone blind, crystals growing out of her eyes as she stumbled blindly forward.  Thren’s entire left side had gone stiff with growths, and she dragged the petrified limbs behind her, glowing eyes staring angrily at Morgan.  All the others were faces from Haven and Skyhold; civilians and soldiers alike.  All eyes turned to the approaching group, and a bone chilling wail rose up from the crowd.  Morgan couldn’t help herself, and jerked back, facing going pale.

“Darkspawn!” Hawke bared her teeth, fire gathering at the end of her staff, the Mark singing with her power. 

Still shanking, and desperately trying to convince herself of the Nightmare’s hand in the sight before her, Morgan took another step back, and bumped into Bull, the handle of his axe nudging her ribs. Without thinking, she looked up.  Beneath the red glow— _false,_ she told herself again—she saw fear in his eye, white showing nearly all the way around his iris.  In looking away from her own fear, and seeing her dear friend pushed into such agony, something in her broke.  The Nightmare was hurting the people that she cared for, and whatever last broken piece of the old Morgan had been left finally died, overtaken by rage, fear, and hatred.

Bull heard Morgan’s scream, and through his haze, he saw her tear away from his side, charging after Hawke and Alistair into the approaching knot of foes. He didn’t know what the others saw, what made Cassandra pale even as she charged in, jaw set and tight.  He didn’t know why tears streaked Morgan’s cheeks as she danced and whirled, slicing and stabbing all around her.  He wished it was demons; he’d have been _glad_ to see demons.  But this… He saw Tal-Vashoth, all gone rabid and feral, the epitome of what the Qun taught him would happen if he ever strayed.  But not just Tal-Vashoth.  He _knew_ the faces in the crowd, he knew each and every one of them.  Each and every Tal-Vashoth he faced now, had once been a man fighting at his side.

Morgan felt Bull enter the fight, rather than seeing or hearing. The flow of a battle always changed when he was as part of it.  Enemies moved differently; she saw them jerk back in the corner of her eye, as if from a wide sweeping blow.  Sure enough, as she cut the throat of a lyrium-encrusted Seggrit and turned, she saw her friend laying into the edge of the fight, cutting through whatever horror the Nightmare placed before him.  But the fear was still on his face, and he flinched nearly every time he landed a blow.  Anger roared back to her, pushing down her own horror and revulsion.

Making sure that Bull was aware of her approach, she got behind a cluster of enemies, slashing at their flanks and driving them into the deadly swings of Bull’s axe. She tried to let the panting of her own breath and the rush of the blood in her ears drown out the cries from the glowing, crystal ridden corpses.  But it remained, pushing at her, trying to get past the wall of anger that she had thrown up aground herself. 

She had only to glance at the faces of her companions to renew her fervor. There was no jovial chatter, no barbs passed between them.  There was only focus for the fight before them, all of them fighting personalized terrors.  For a brief moment, Morgan had to leap back, head spinning from a blow.  As her vision slowly cleared, the sounds finally reached her.  Not just wails and cries of pain, but words, fully formed pleas directed straight at her.  And then, softly from the background at first, but growing louder.

_“Failure!”_

_“Why didn’t you try harder to save us?”_

_“You failed! You failed you failed you failed!”_

It might as well have been a punch to the gut, and she screamed, the sound ragged with frustration and hatred. She was trying so fucking _hard_!  She was doing _everything_ in her power to keep things from falling apart!  It wasn’t fair!  She saw a gash open on Bull’s chest, the blood as bright as lyrium as it dripped down his ribs.  There was a roaring in her ears, and suddenly the muscle ache of exertion faded away.  She no longer felt the tugging burn in her body that any sort of fight elicited.  All she could feel was the scalding heat of the Anchor.  She felt as if her veins had been filled with boiling water, the heat spreading outwards from within.

It was like the pull of a Rift, but harder and sporadic, as if it were trying to latch onto the many roaming terrors rather than just the one tear in the Veil. She clenched her hand and _pulled_.  Gone gone gone.  She wanted them _gone_!  All at once, it was demons that fought against them, shades and wisps and terrors.  And then they were being torn away, as if a force from far away reached out and pulled the core out out of them.  They screamed, and then dissolved.  The Mark recoiled and she was thrown back, tumbling and rolling over the ground.  Her left hand _burned_ , the Mark brighter than it had been since that first day.  Coming up onto her knees, she doubled over, clutching the limb to her chest.

Cassandra reached her first, gripping her shoulders and lifting her back up to search her face. She opened her mouth to speak, face flushed with worry and exertion.  “Morgan… what did you…?”  She trailed off, unable to form the words.

“She banished them,” Solas said, wiping at the gash on his head with his sleeve. He was staring at Morgan with something akin to wonder.  “You tore them apart, banishing their pieces… I have never…”  He trailed off, for once at a loss for words.

Bull shouldered past, coming to crouch beside Cassandra. Without question, he reached in, cupping Morgan’s jaw and lifting her face him, is eye flickering over her face, trying to read her expression beneath the pain, but her eyes were glazed and empty.  “Boss, hey.  You alright in there?”  He was glad he was able to keep the strain out of his voice.  Morgan blinked, pupils shrinking.  Looking between Cassandra and Bull.  The bit of blue silk was sticking out of the Seeker’s collar again, and Morgan found herself reaching up to tucking it back in.  Blushing silently, Cassandra stepped back.  Bull squeezed her jaw gently, drawing her attention back to him.  “You good, Boss?”

“I think so?” She took a quick inventory.  The burn of movement had returned to her arms and legs, dulled by the buzz of adrenaline.  She brought her left hand away from her chest, lifting up the brilliantly glowing mark.  Fear curled in her belly like a stone, and she looked pleadingly at Solas.  He knelt in Cassandra’s place, Bull’s arm moving to her back as the elf took her Marked hand between his own. 

Varric saw the touch, and the way Morgan leaned into the big gray hand, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. His eyes were drawn back to the exposed love bite on her neck, and quickly narrowed as he looked between the two.  His sharp gaze did not miss the way Morgan glanced up at Bull for reassurance, and he couldn’t help the grin that rose up out of nowhere.  It didn’t matter that they were in the Fade, or that the Fade looked like the Deep Roads infested with red lyrium, or that every now and then he’d swear he could hear his brother’s voice.  The grin spread so wide that he had to cover it with his hand.

“The Mark appears unchanged,” Solas finally said. “The power you showed on the battlements, opening that small Rift, I believe that you banishing the demons is a manifestation of that.  Magic behaves strangely in the Fade, and at is core, the Mark _is_ magic.  Though I never would have guessed that it could be used to banish demons.”

He was about to say something more, but then another voice spoke, huge and booming and coming from everywhere at once. **_“Ah, we have visitors!”_** The words dragged and echoed, bouncing off the rocks and beating on Morgan’s ears.  Instantly, they were all on their feet, putting their backs to each other as they formed a circle, weapons raised.  Morgan swallowed hard.

“Please tell me I’m not the only one hearing that,” Hawke hissed.

“Nope.” Varric had paled again. 

 ** _“Did you enjoy playing with my Fearlings?”_**  It laughed, the sound sending a deeply unpleasant shiver down Morgan’s spine.

“Oh _fuck you_ ,” she spat, eyes flickering over the landscape, looking for a target.

 ** _“And the Inquisitor herself! Such an_ honor _.”_** Its derision was palpable.  **_“Would it surprise you to know that I knew you before? You were so afraid of your father… and you’re no different now, are you?  Just some silly little girl, come to steal the pain I so kindly lifted from her shoulders.  You should be_ thanking _me.”_**

“It’s trying to bait us,” Hawke said. “Don’t listen to a fucking word!  We can’t stay here; we have to get to the Divine.  We have to _move_.”  They all nodded, and started walking again, though each one of them felt some manner of discomfort in turning around, even though there was no exact source of the voice to put their back to.

**_“The Champion of Kirkwall! I’m meeting all sorts of interesting people today.  Tell me, do you really believe that you can protect Carver and Merrill?  You couldn’t protect Bethany or your mother, you couldn’t even save your city!  Your little Blood Mage lover is going to_ die _, just like everyone else!”_**

“Well, _that’s_ going to get tiresome quickly,” Hawke muttered.  “Let’s kill this thing quickly yes?”

 ** _“Yes, that worked_ so _well before,”_** the Nightmare sneered. 

They kept moving, the gold on the Divine’s robe catching the light in the distance. They fully expected to be jumped by more of the Fearlings any second, but the path remained clear.  But the presence followed them, seeming to float in the air, pressing in on them, clawing at their feet.  Seeming to tire of their silence, the Nightmare shifted its attention.

**_“Once again, Hawke is in danger because of_ you _, Varric. The Inquisitor has nightmares every night because of_ you _._ You _found the red lyrium,_ you _brought Hawke here… How are you going to tell ‘Daisy’ that you killed her wife?”_**

“Just keep talking, Smiley,” Varric muttered, looking resolutely ahead.

 ** _“So much fear, Inquisitor,”_** it purred.  **_“You are scared of so very many things, aren’t you? This isn’t like before, is it?  You have so much more to lose, now don’t you?  All these friends… and yet the only one you choose to trust is the Qunari spy.  Your father was right, you are quite stupid.”_**

“Silence!” Cassandra snarled. There was murder in her eyes, but she had no target, instead digging in her feet as the path began to rise.

 ** _“Your Inquisitor is a_ fraud _, Cassandra,”_** the demon purred.  **_“She’s not special, not chosen by your precious Lady. Yet more evidence that all your faith has been for naught!”_**

Morgan flinched as if struck, but Cassandra only growled, “die in the Void, demon.”

It laughed at them again. **_“Perhaps it is_ I _who should be afraid, facing the most fearsome members of the Inquisition.”_**   The sound that came next could have been described as an amused giggle, terrible and grating.  **_“The qunari will make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or, maybe, I shall ride his body myself.  Would you like that, the Iron Bull?  You could watch while I used your hands to tear_ her _apart; to violate her precious, hard earned trust in_ every _way… You’d be as savage as the Tal-Vashoth you hate so deeply.”_**

“I’d like to see you try,” Bull growled, and Morgan felt him move closer to her. Her chest tightened, the words cutting deep even as she tried to push them from her mind.  They kept going, the incline steep and covered in loose stones.  But the Rift looked a bit bigger.

“Oh, _shut up_!” Alistair groaned.  “I don’t remember demons being this chatty…”

**_“Oh, did the King’s bastard think to prove himself? Far too late for that.  Your whole life, you’ve left everything in more capable hands.  The Archdemon, the throne of Ferelden…  Who will you hide behind now?”_ **

Alistair’s smile was bitter and hard. “Is that all it’s got?  I’ve heard worse than that from Morrigan.”

“She sounds absolutely _lovely_ ,” Morgan muttered.  She was forced to sheathe her daggers, needing her hand free as the landscape leveled, but then dipped down sharply.  Morgan wrinkled her nose at the sight that met her.  It was a damn swamp.  Pools of water dotted the landscape, rock and red lyrium jutting up in pillars that seemed to grow from the ground like twisted, diseased trees.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”  There was no other way across, and as the others came to the edge, Morgan glowered upwards. 

Varric peered out at the water. It didn’t look particularly deep, but a film covered the top, clear and milky over dark, brackish looking water.  “ _Last_ time,” he grumbled, as Morgan took the first wet step forwards, “the demons were much better at decorating.”

“ _Last_ time, it took images from my head,” Hawke retorted.  “I clearly have much better taste.”  She looked around and suppressed a shiver.  “Did I ever mention that fear is my _least_ favorite type of demon?”

“We must do our best to ignore its words,” Solas said, eyes hard. As they started out into the water, Morgan realized that she truly couldn’t read him.  That had never happened before.  He had always appeared fairly open, little flickers of the eye or twitches of the mouth giving him away.  But now… Now it was like looking at a whole different person.  It wasn’t just the red in his eyes, either.  He was more blank and closed off than Morgan had ever seen.  She still couldn’t always read Bull, but this…  There was something strange and otherworldly about Solas’s expression now, and he was at once much older and decades younger.

The Nightmare cut into her thoughts. **_“Dirth ma, harellan?”_**

Hawke started, eyes widening and staring around at the empty landscape. “That’s… that’s Elvhen!”

It continued. **_“Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_**

“It’s talking to Chuckles?” Varric shot a glance at the male mage.

Solas lifted his head, and for a moment, something harsh flashed across his face, and Morgan felt a brief trickle of new fear. Not from the Nightmare or the hellish surroundings, but from Solas himself.  “Banal nadas,” he spat back, and his face was normal again, no longer impenetrable and ancient, just plain old weird Solas.

Hawke snorted and Varric raised a brow at her. “Something funny?” “I’m pretty sure he just told the demon to shut the fuck up,” she said, grinning at the elf. 

“That is a rough translation, but yes, essentially,” Solas admitted with a sheepish smile. Morgan realized that she no longer trusted his expressions, but couldn’t help the smirking that curved her lips.  If anyone was going to cuss out an ancient Fear Demon in its lair, Solas would not have been who she expected.

The moment of brevity was brief. The water was icy, quickly seeping through their boots and through their socks.  The Nightmare had fallen silent, but no one was in any way relieved.  The silence was almost worse, not knowing when or how the creature was planning to show itself.  After the steep climb, everyone had drawn their weapons again, walking with blades, bolts, and staves at the ready.  The Mark crackled brightly, shooting the occasional bolt of pain up her arm, making her elbow tingle as if it had been struck.  It felt almost like there was an open wound across her palm, scabbed over but still raw under her glove.

Bull saw her flinch a few times, left hand drawing back towards her chest. She had stopped trying to keep her mask in place, her nervous obvious with the furrowing of her brows and the slight downward curl at the corners of her mouth.  The fog shifted and settled slightly, spreading out to lay thickly over the water.  While he could see further now, he couldn’t see shit below his knees, and his nerves tightened, half expecting tripwires or landmines made of stolen gaatlok.  And as glad as he was to see the others, he still growled quietly.

“What’s this supposed to be? Praying on my fear of wet calves?” he grumbled. 

Both dwarves snorted, and Morgan looked up at him with a half-smile. “If wet feet is the worst it can do, I think we’ll be just fine.”  The words were tight and forced, her round face pale under her freckles.  But Bull smiled back anyways.  He hadn’t failed to notice how close she had stuck to him since the fight, not seeing but still aware of how the fog had half robbed him of his sight.  And it wasn’t just him either, though he was the one she walked closest to.  Bull saw her attention jump between companions, her concern obvious, even for Alistair and Hawke, who she knew only by reputation.  Her capacity for compassion was endless, even in the shittiest of shit-holes.  He shook his head and let out a puff of breath.

Up ahead, the Divine had stopped, alighting on a rock above the water as if she hadn’t just been floating along like a dandelion seed caught on the wind. Despite the urge to run towards her, Morgan stuck to Bull’s side, tightening her hands on her daggers in an effort to drown out the pain of the Mark.  Looking warily around, the party gathered before the Divine, resisting the urge to crowd onto the rock where the icy water would no longer suck at their feet.,

“The Nightmare is closer now,” the Divine said. “It knows you seek escape.  With every moment, it grows stronger.”

“See, that’s _really_ not helpful,” Bull muttered sourly. 

“I’m with Tiny on this one,” Varric agreed.

“There are still pieces of memory that you have not yet regained. Please, take them while the demon is still gathering its strength.”  She turned, gesturing to the wide space that opened up. 

Bog lights glittered with the same familiar light as the Mark, and Morgan felt suddenly pulled forward. She had taken two steps before Bull put a hand on her shoulder, dragging her to a stop.  “Are you _sure_ about listening to this thing?”  His voice was low, eyes distrustful as they eyed the shape of the Divine.  “It could be just a trick.  The Nightmare could just be trying to get into your head. _Possess_ you.”  The last words came out hoarse and sharp, his fingers curling and digging into her shoulder.  When she looked up at him, his eye was desperate.

Her chest ached to put him through distress, and she lifted a hand to cover his. “I need to say yes to be possessed,” she said, remembering lessons from both Solas and Sh’vara.  “The only thing that I’m letting into my head is my memories.  I’m taking back what’s mine.”  She set her jaw then, and Bull knew that there was no dissuading her.  He sighed, and let his hand drop.  But he didn’t step away from her, following right behind her.  When Varric strode past the Divine to walk at her other side, Morgan smiled. 

The pulling sensation in her left hand grew stronger, and her heart began to race. As she drew closer to the first light, she realized that a shard of something green hung within the light, not unlike an open Rift, the shape of it constantly shifting and adjusting.  With her friends at her back, she lifted her Marked hand, fingers inches from the strange mass.  The Anchor burst with light, glowing right through the leather of her gloves.  Instead of shoving light into the mini-rift, the bog light was pulled into the mark, little pieces of light and green stone sucked into and vanishing into her palm.

Morgan’s head spun, images bursting in her mind like fireworks. Pieces floated up from the depths to adhere themselves to her mind.  Then it stopped, and she knew she had to move to the next.  She heard Bull and Varric’s feet sloshing behind her as she walked to the next bog light.  Again, the Mark sucked up the green, undulating shard in pieces, and she felt the same rush of images and words, but nothing to form a cohesive picture of events.

Looking back, she saw the Divine moving slowly after them, her wrinkled face offering a gentle smile. Then Morgan was at the final light, and fear lanced through her, curling tightly around her chest, making it hard to breathe.  What if Bull was right?  What if this was all a trick of the Nightmare?  But the light called to her, and it was not the tug of a Rift full of demons.  It was something far more familiar.  It called to the to her, like a missing piece of the Mark itself, and she took one more step, and raised her hand for the last time.  The last pieces fell into place, and she staggered back.  Her memories formed a story, running her through the events just before the Conclave explosion.

“She’s going down again!” Varric ducked under Morgan’s arm as her daggers fell, and caught her awkwardly as he still held Bianca. 

Bull crouched, holding out an arm. “I got her, Varric.”  There was none of the usual bluster or barbs that the dwarf had gotten so used to, and he stared at the Qunari for a moment before he let him take Morgan’s weight.  He watched the warrior take her gently, supporting her easily as her eyes fluttered open again.  “Hey…”  It was all he said, and Varric thought he saw a flicker of relief in the pale green eye.

But Morgan wasn’t looking at either of them. Her gaze remained locked on the Divine as she came back to her feet.  She turned towards the woman, taking a few shaking steps before she steadied herself.  “It was _you_ ,” she whispered, the sudden swell of emotion bringing hot tears to her eyes.  Everyone could hear the sadness in her voice as she took a few more steps towards the Most Holy.  “I… I thought that it was Andraste sending me from the Fade, but…”  She felt a tear leak out, running down her inchor-spattered cheek.  “But it was the Divine behind me…”  Her voice cracked.  “And then you… she died.”

Morgan could remember so clearly now; the way she had reached out, trying to pull the Divine forward, back through the rift. But the woman had pushed away, making Morgan loose her balance.  Then Morgan had been falling, and woke up with Cassandra growling accusations.  “You… you saved me.”  Her voice was little more than a croak.

A look that could only be described as sadness crossed the Divine’s face. “Yes.”

“So you are… you are simply a spirit…” When Cassandra’s voice cracked, Morgan looked over, and found herself looking upon something akin more to a lost child than the unshakable Seeker that she had come to know.  Tears flowed for Morgan then, to see her friend so heartbroken.

“I am sorry if I disappoint you.” And then the visage of Divine Justinia began to fade, melting into golden light.  The light shimmered and lifted, coalescing into a form that resembled a human woman, with barely there suggestions of facial features.  It looked nothing like the spirit of Command that they had encountered in Crestwood.

Morgan saw Cassandra’s hand twitch as if to reach out. “Are you… are you her soul?” the seeker whispered.

When the Divine spoke again, her voice had changed, echoing and breathy. “If that is the story you wish to tell, it is not a bad one.”  Morgan wasn’t sure if the spirit knew itself.  But it had helped them, and giving Morgan back the pieces of herself that the Nightmare had taken.  Before she could voice her thanks, the Divine’s head snapped up, and she winked out of existence.  But her voice remained.  “The Nightmare…  It has found us.”

Suddenly the water in the distance glowed red, and the same wail as before began again as figures lurched up from water that had been much too shallow to hide them. Morgan scrambled back to her daggers.  “This is the biggest pile of nug-shit!” she cursed, fear tightening her again.  The lyrium growths on the others were larger now, obscuring eyes and fingers and more than half of Solas’s face.  Her stomach revolted to see Bull’s beautiful sea-green eye glowing red, and as they waded into the fray together, she kept seeing flashes of a darker, liquid red at his throat.  She no longer wanted to just escape the Nightmare, she wanted to _kill_ it. 

“Keep back!” Hawke’s voice cut through the charge, only moments before huge hunks of fire began to rain down upon the approaching crowd.  They crashed down like rocks, and to Morgan’s eyes, sent shards of red lyrium flying through the air, glittering like bloody sparks.  The screams cut at all of them, and Morgan felt tears pricking her eyes.

 _“It’s your fault we’re like this!”_ they screamed.  _“You didn’t try hard enough and you failed us! Failure!  Failure!  Failure!!”_

The only thing that kept her from just leaping in to end the voices was the small jerk of expression on Bull’s face. The grimace was both pain and anger, visible even through the mask of lyrium that the Nighmare had painted him with.  A scream rent the air, all rage and despair, and Morgan turned to see Cassandra charging in.  For a brief moment, in the dying light of Hawke’s fire, Morgan saw tears on the Seeker’s face.  She felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs.  Before Bull, Cassandra had been the pillar of strength and calm that Morgan had looked to.  To see her like this…

“I AM GOING TO FUCKING _KILL_ YOU!!” Morgan roared to the sky, charging in with Bull at her side.

 ** _“You think you can fight me?”_** the Nightmare scoffed.  **_“I am your every fear come to life! I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself! The demon army that terrorizes your dreams, Inquisitor?_ I _command it! They are all bound through me!”_**

At first, Morgan just snarled her defiance, laying into her enemies and trying not to look at them for too long. But as she wove around Bull, timing her attacks with each swing of his axe, the demons words took on a new meaning.  She let out a whoop of laughter, starling Bull and Hawke, who stood closest to her.  “So what you’re telling me, is that if we kill your creepy ass, we banish all those demons back at Adamant?!” she shouted.  Realization passed through the others like a ripple.  “Thank _so_ much, ‘every fear come to life’!” Morgan cackled.

There was a roar of frustration from everywhere and nowhere and she knew that she was right. A fresh burst of energy swept over them all, a glimmer of hope lighting fires in their hearts, lifting their tires souls.  The grin on Morgan’s face was very nearly maniacal as she hacked and slashed her way through.  All at once, with a sound akin to air being sucked in by bellows, the landscape changed.  The glow of lyirum faded from the world around her and her friends, and her foes had become demons.  The change so startled her that she took a blow to the chest, claws scraping over her breastplate before she lunged back in at the twisted shape she found herself facing.

The others seemed to being going through something similar, all of them jerking back or seeming startled for a brief moment. Solas was the only one who didn’t smile.  “The demon is gathering its power to manifest physically!” he cried, striking down the last of the wisps.  “We must hurry!”

With Justinia floating after them, they ran, pounding through the water and over the rocks. They could see the Rift clearly now; a swirling mass of green at the top of as long, narrow stair.  “Why is it always stairs?!” Varric shouted, and Morgan was inclined to agree. 

Morgan had seen demons pop into existence before. But the Nightmare was in a class far beyond anything they had faced before.  Air was forced outwards as matter took shape before them, the force of it making them stagger back.  It was so large that they had to crane their necks to even get a glimpse of the top.  The basic shape was vaguely spiderlike, with a monstrous head crowed in uneven and craggy horns.  But what turned Morgan’s stomach was the thousands and thousands of eyes.  They were all set in deep wrinkled holes across the beast’s heady and body, rolling and staring as the mandibles snapped and chattered.  Morgan’s entire body tried to seize as the physical sensation of fear washed over her, even as her mind boiled with hatred.

She was about to step forward, when a soft touch at her shoulder turned her head. Justinia floated past, the light of her form building and pulsing.  “Please tell Leliana; ‘I’m sorry, I failed you, too’.”  Then she shot forth like an arrow, striking the Nightmare squarely.  Both of them exploded in a burst of light and a screeching cacophony of sound.  The air sucked back in to occupy the space.  But the sensation of fear remained, tightening her chest as she looked around in confusion.

“That can’t be it,” Bull muttered. “It’s _never_ that easy.”

“I think… she just dispelled its physical manifestation,” Hawke said, one hand slightly raised as if trying to touch something.  She shivered.  “It’s still here.”  A rumbling began around them, the rocks groaning and scraping as the ground began to shift.  “We need to get to that Rift!”

“Wait!” Morgan wasn’t looking at any of them, eyes darting around the empty air.  Her hands clenched at her sides, the Mark burning up her arm.  There was no way she could just _leave_.  The thing had to die, or get as close to dying as a demon could.  “I’m not just going to let that thing live!”  She whirled, looking to Solas as she remembered some of his lessons.  They had been in Haven, and seemed so long ago.  “Banishing!  Does it kill demons?”

Catching on, Solas tried to shake his head. “Even with the Anchor, you would not have the power to—”

“You and Hawke,” Morgan insisted, “pour all you have left into the Mark! If we don’t banish it here, it could try again!  I won’t leave that option open!  Please!”  Her voice was desperate, eyes going between the two mages. 

It was only a few moments of silence, but it seemed to stretch forever. Hawke was the first to stride forward, putting her staff at her back and a hand on Morgan’s shoulder.  “I’m with you.”

“You were always one for harebrained schemes,” Varric muttered. “I can see married life hasn’t changed you one bit.”  There was a sad sort of smile on his face.  “What do you say, Chuckles?”

His brow was deeply creased, lips pulled down in a deep frown. But he stepped forward.  “It is possible, but dangerous.  Especially to you.”  His eyes locked onto Morgan’s, and again she felt a shiver of fear, just a glimpse of something flashing across his face before he gave a rueful smile.  “You care nothing for the danger, do you?” he said, sounding wholly unsurprised.

Morgan blinked, and found herself smiling as well. “You’re right.  I don’t.”  She turned the others.  “You should all get to the Rift.”

Just then, all Bull could think of was her telling him to run as the Archdemon descended on Haven, and how he had left her behind. He remembered how cold and small she had felt in his arms, on the brink of death.  He laughed, shaking his head.  “You’re funny, Boss,” he said dryly.

“Bull—”

“I’m not leaving until you’re done,” the qunari growled. “Do whatever stupid magical crap you have to.”  He moved to stand behind them, his ax still at the ready.

“I hope you meet Brosca someday, Inquisitor,” Alistair said, taking up a spot beside Bull as a rear guard. “You two are so alike you’ll either get along famously or despise each other.”

“Do what you must. We will have your back.”  Cassandra gave a brief nod before she joined the others.  Varric followed, shaking his head but smiling.  Morgan looked at them, all with their backs to her as they formed a guard behind her, Solas, and Hawke.  She heard the two talking, words clipped and hurried.  Gratitude overwhelmed her as she stared back, and she realized that she trusted Cassandra and Varric, too.  They would never betray her, never turn away from her when she was in need.  Vision blurring with tears, she turned back to the mages.

Before them, at the base of the stairs to the Rift, a smaller form was staring to take shape. Both humanoid and spiderlike, it roared with a half formed mouth, face twisted and eyeless. Fear made her body shake and sweat, but her fury cut through it, hating the fear demon more than her father, more than Alexius, more than _Corypheus_.  Two hand alighted on her shoulders, and she felt her body come alive with power.

Invisible to all but the Nightmare, Morgan’s eyes flared and glowed with the light of the Mark, her left hand blazing like a beacon as she lifted it towards them. They felt the power growing, the dwarf filled with so much energy she might as well have been a mage herself.  The mages at her back might as well have been giving her their life force.  They lunged, shrieking their fury.  Morgan saw it coming, felt its hatred pouring over her.  Then Solas’s hand tightened ever so slightly on her arm, and she felt as if she were burning.  Everything inside her screamed, nerves torn raw and chaffed instantly to agony.  She screamed, feeling as if a single movement would tear her apart.

Hawke stared, feeling the power from the other mage. Her eyes widened, something familiar in the power she felt mixing in her own.  He was far stronger than she’d guessed, and she knew at once that he was the strongest mage she had ever met.  All at once, the feeling under her hand changed.  Something inside Morgan caught fire, the blaze sweeping forward, adding to the power Solas and Hawke threw forth.  The Mark exploded with green fire, just as the Nightmare reached them.  There was a scream, and Morgan’s world went white.

There was no way to know how much time had passed before she came back. Every inch of her body still sung and buzzed with energy, but she shook her head, taking a few steps forward.  “Go!”  Then they were all running again.  A big, familiar hand brushed her arm, and she saw a quick flash of Bull’s concerned face before they tumbled back through the rift.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that's done. Bioware's a dick and I'm not killing my Brosca's best friend or Hawke, so THERE. Also, some inspiration for not killing Hawke or Alistair is taken from the amazing Fire is Her Water fic, which if you haven't read already, go read it right NOW. 
> 
> Also, I'm starting to plant seeds about Solas. Nothing big, of course, but Morgan would never quite be able to trust him. And yes, I ship Josie/Cassandra. Plus, more clues for the plot stuff I'm going to do with Morgan and the Anchor. Anyone have any guesses?
> 
> Please tell me what you think! I love you guys!


	17. Alive and (Mostly) Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. I mean obviously. I'm not going to miss out on writing survival sex. Also look for some fun personal moments and hints at future plot.

Alive and (Mostly) Whole:

 

The moments after coming out of the Rift became a blur. Alistair was made Warden Commander on the spot, and Morgan took the Wardens under the Inquisition’s wing.  Some of the companions got angry, and it made her chest ache to remember how hurt Cole had looked at her decision.  But banishing the Grey Wardens simply wasn’t an option for the world, no matter what the others thought.  As she turned away, and orders began flowing, what focus she’d been able to muster had slipped away, the world blurring.  She wavered on her feet, but a steady hand caught her arm. 

“I got you, Hooks,” Varric said, his smile looking as weary as she felt. He turned his head.  “Hey, Tiny!”  Following his gaze, she saw Bull standing back from the group that was starting to mill about.  He saw Varric and Morgan, and came away from the wall, cutting easily through the crowd to reach the two dwarves.  Varric nodded at Morgan.  “Let’s get her Inquisitorialness somewhere away from the crowd, huh?” he said softly.

Morgan blinked up at Bull, and saw him nod. “You good to walk?” he asked, hand touching her back lightly. 

Some of her senses returned, and she straightened, shaking her head. “They can’t see me be carried,” she said quietly, the bustle around them keeping the words from passing beyond the three of them.  Stepping away from the support of Bull and Varric, she had to grit her teeth and force her tired legs back into motion.  It felt as if every inch of her had been beaten repeatedly with one of the wooden practice swords that Cassandra was always breaking.  But people were still watching; they could see her tired and bruised, just as they were, but no more.  She couldn’t fall, couldn’t falter.

With Bull and Varric at her back, they steered her from the courtyard. The path they had taken when fighting their way in was busy with people, so Varric tugged them off down some stairs.  After a few twists and turns, they found themselves in what appeared to be an abandoned mess hall.  There were no signs of a meal, all the chairs pushed in and all the food packed away.  All Morgan could think about was how many empty chairs there would be now.  The last time they sat there, had they known it would be their last meal?

Varric left her side to try the doors leading off the large room, and she looked up at Bull. For a few moments he didn’t meet her eyes, staring off at nothing.  Morgan touched his elbow gently, frowning when he twitched.  “We’re not in the Fade anymore,” she whispered.  “We made it out.”  Her voice cracked slightly at the end, and he finally looked down at her.  Maybe saying it again would make it more believable.  “We made it out…”  She let out a trembling breath, touching Bull’s arm again for reassurance.

Varric reappeared at their side, touching Morgan lightly. “People are going to be coming down here before long, but I think I found an office you can stay in for a while.”  He pointed down a hall towards an open door.

The urge to just burst into tears blurred Morgan’s vision. Instead, she yanked the other dwarf in for a tight hug, feeling him go stiff and then return the gesture, squeezing her tightly.  For a moment, there was a shake to him, a tremble in his grip that gave away the turmoil beneath his usual cocky smile.  She dug her fingers into his armor, remembering the genuine concern he’d shown her when she woke again in Haven, his concern and worry for a complete stranger…  He smelled awful, and Morgan was fairly certain that she wasn’t in much better shape.  When they pulled back he clapped her soundly on the shoulder. 

“I am going to find somewhere that smells a bit less like death and then smoke until I can’t see anything but smoke,” Varric announced, stepping away and heading back the way that they had come.

Morgan watched him go. Even after he vanished up the stairs, the silence hung between them.  She felt herself shrinking further back, arms wrapping around herself.  When she spoke, her voice was quiet and very, very small.  “Can I hold your hand Bull?”

Pulled out of his own tired numbness, Bull blinked as the request filtered in, and looked down. Morgan’s head was lowered, eyes staring at the floor.  She had her arms drawn in and shoulders hunched, the picture of trying to withdraw from the world.  To his shame, all Bull could think about was how soft she’d felt the night before, and how well she’d fit against his chest.  Stepping around to stand in front of her, Bull reached out and pulled her hand away from her body, dwarfing it completely in his own.  Instantly she wove her fingers with his and squeezed, the strength of her grip making him smile.  People would forever be underestimating her.

Tugging gently, Bull led her to the room Varric had indicated. They went down a short, narrow hall, and found the room as empty as promised.  There wasn’t much in it, but it was big enough for a small fireplace and a massive, much-patched armchair.  A desk and simpler chair sat in the corner, with a long padded bench along the same wall.  Giving Bull’s hand one last squeeze, Morgan pulled her flint and striker from her belt, and lit the torch on the wall.  She paused then, hands resting on the desk and her back to Bull.  She felt so empty…

The touch on her shoulder didn’t make her jump, and instead she turned her head slowly, looking up at Bull’s shadowed face. She forced a weak smile.  “We made it,” she murmured, but the words felt hollow, and her expression faded.  Her eyes lowered, settling on the gash on Bull’s chest.  The demon’s claws hade nearly shorn through the strap that held his harness and pauldrons on, and she found herself reaching up to touch the new leather.  Bull’s hand closed over hers, and she looked back up at him.  Seeing him look just as lost as she felt brought everything bubbling back to the surface, the emptiness vanishing in a blink.

The light caught on the tears swelling in her eyes, running a track down her cheek when she squeezed her eyes shut. Bull knew that tears could be used as a tool, and that many women would use such things to their advantage.  But Morgan didn’t cry _at all_ if she could help it, even in front of friends and people she trusted.  His hand brushed her cheek, and she leaned into the warmth of his hand, brows coming together and chin trembling.  She hated letting Bull see her cry—see her being _weak_ —but once they started they wouldn’t stop.  Her shoulders began to shake with choked back sobs, and she felt Bull direct them back towards the bench.  She was dimly aware of the sound of him setting down his axe as she sat down, leaning into him when he sat down beside her.

What little restraint she’d had left abandoned her, and the trembling tears turned to wracking sobs. She leaned into Bull as his arm went around her, unbothered by the way her armor dug in and pinched.  He couldn’t bring himself to care either. All the fear came back in rush, and she grabbed onto Bull and _clung_.  She had to look up, to reassure herself that he was still safe, that the lyrium hadn’t touched him.  When their eyes met, his grip on her tightened, as if in reassurance.  She stared up at his face, all scars and lines, each of them familiar.  His chest rose and fell beneath her hand, breathing slow and even. _Alive_. 

A fresh wave of tears made her duck her head again, a lump tightening her throat. Her hands curled into fists, nails scraping his skin.  Bull didn’t let go, even as her tears left her face and rolled over his skin.  His other hand lifted, tugging at the pins in her hair until it tumbled lose to her shoulders.  He took in a deep, shuddering breath, sliding his fingers through the strands.  Out of nowhere, he remembered his Tama, and how she would braid his hair when he had still been very small.  She’d had years of practice, and could easily turn his fluffy cloud of tight black curls into even, straight rows of braids.  He had always found the rhythmic tugging oddly relaxing, and hoped that maybe Morgan would find comfort in something similar. 

But Morgan made a quiet noise, separate from the wet breaths she took with each sob. She leaned into the touch, the repetitive motion gentle and soothing.  A wave of embarrassment washed over her, and she instantly tried to quiet herself, hiccupping twice before she was able to gain some semblance of control.  Looking up, she saw easily through the dark.  Bull’s face was blank and drawn, with dark, heavy circles showing under his eyes.  At once, she felt incredibly selfish.  Bull had been through the same personalized sort of horror that she had, but he was still just comforting _her_. Twisting on the bench, Morgan got her feet on the floor and stood, leaving Bull’s touch just long enough to come up in front of him, standing between his bent knees.  Their faces were much closer this way, and she bit her lip before reaching out a hand to touch his cheek.  She could immediately feel the tightness of his jaw, and her fingers ran down the taught, clenched muscles in his neck.  There had always been a loophole in her anxiety and fear, where if someone she cared about was also suffering, she could push her own pain aside completely to help them instead.

But she had no words. She had no way to offer comfort for what was still tearing at her, panic laced around her chest like a corset.  Leaning in, she wrapped her arms around Bull and buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing deeply.  He smelled of smoke and magic, sharp and clinging to him.  Slowly, as if afraid she’d break, Bull wrapped his arms around her.  Morgan made a soft sound and kissed his neck.  He tasted of salt and sweat, bitter and dusty.  But his pulse beat strong under her trembling lips, and she nearly began crying again.  Instead, she leaned up and kissed him.

Her lips tasted raw from two scabbed-over splits, the metal and salt tang lingering when Bull let himself kiss back. This was easy.  Sex was so much easier than the mess going around in his head.  Sucking in a breath, his hands dropped past her ass to lift her by the backs of her legs into his lap.  His horns knocked the wall behind him as he leaned back.  She nipped his bottom lip, and the kiss lost all gentleness, full of teeth and tongue and the scrape of his stubble.  His hand fisted in her loose hair, tugging as he growled.

They parted, Morgan sucking in a breath. One hand cupped the side of Bull’s face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw.  His eye looked back at her, pupil dilated and gaze hooded.  His hands tightened on her hips and she shivered.  The tension had left his face, replaced with something dark and intense.  On a stranger, it would have terrified her.  But this was Bull.  This was her friend.  Quick as snake, she darted back in for another kiss, biting his full bottom lip between her teeth.  Her gloved hand dove between them, fingers grabbing the edge of his belt.  She tugged once, flicking her tongue over the seam of his mouth.

Bull’s hands left her hips, pushing her back just enough for him to undo the harness that held her daggers. She quickly shrugged it off, uncaring as the weapons clattered to the floor.  Next went her belt, sash, bracers and gloves.  Bull’s fingers were just as nimble as hers, making quick work of her coat as she undid the buckles of his harness.  She had to step back for him to remove his massive pauldrons and bracers, and she sucked in a breath when she saw him in just his vitaar.  Geometric yet fluid shapes painted in black curled around his right arm, fitting together and standing out starkly against the gray of his skin.  She reached out, wanting to touch, but quickly pulled her hand back.

“You said it was poison for non-qunari?” she said, trying not to sound all breathy.

Bull undid his belt, the heavy leather battle skirt that protected his sides crashing to the floor. He sat down and dragged her back into his lap.  “Only before I apply it,” he mumbled into her neck, his hands finding the bottom edge of her chainmail and pulling it up over her head.  “It’ll probably taste like ass though, so—shit!”  He was forced to break off when Morgan leaned in to bite his unpainted shoulder, using her teeth and sucking hard.  Thick fingers dug into her aching hips, moving around to squeeze her ass and thighs, flexing around soft flesh and hard muscle.  “Fuck, Boss.”  He was grinning when she came back into view.

“Yes. That,” Morgan agreed. 

She tightened her legs on either side of Bull’s thighs as she peeled off both layers of shirts, tugging them out of her breeches and tossing them somewhere over her shoulder. Bull growled approvingly, watching her unlace her stay.  Grabbing her around the ribs, Bull lifted her high enough to bury his face in her breasts, breathing in the smell of sweat and leather that clung to her skin.  Morgan yelped and grabbed his horns for balance.  He kissed his way over, leaving little nips that reddened her skin and made her squeak. 

“You make the nicest sounds, Boss,” Bull purred, teasing one small nipple with the tip of his nose.

His unshaven jaw rasped the soft flesh of her breast, and Morgan sucked in a breath. His mouth was perfect wet heat, his tongue flicking against her nipple, her fingers digging into the base of Bull’s horns.  He abruptly pinched the bud between his blunt front teeth, sharp enough to make Morgan buck sharply in his grip.  But she didn’t try to wriggle away, whimpering through closed lips.  He bit her again, flicking his tongue over the trapped nipple, using what he knew she liked to mix with the little stab of pain.  Putting an arm around the backs of her thighs, Bull slid a hand up her back, releasing her nipple in favor of gentle swipes of his tongue.  Morgan had no sooner adjusted to the softer sensation than his nails raked down her back, startling a scream from her.

Bull groaned, leaving her nipple to bite the soft white flesh beside it, sucking hard and coming away with a pop. “Fuck you sound good like that,” he growled, looking up at her.  She blushed all the way to her ears, and he just grinned.  He kissed his way over to the other breast, leaving several reddened love bites in his wake.  Again, he sucked her nipple into his mouth, alternating between the soft, rapid flicks of his tongue, and the pinch of his teeth.  She clung to his horns, barely able to balance herself in his lap.  It didn’t take long to have her writhing, her thighs pressed tightly together.  They were close enough that he could smell her arousal, even though the smoke and battle scent that lingered in her remaining clothes.

Slowly, he lowered her back to his lap, pulling her flush against him. Morgan instantly rocked her hips forward against the hardness he set her against.  Bull shamelessly rocked into her hand when it delved into his trousers, so hot and hard that she felt her cunt tighten up, already wanting him inside.  She kissed him again, sloppy and hungry while she untangled her legs from around him to stand.  She stayed on her feet only long enough to kick off her boots and the rest of her clothes, climbing naked back into Bull’s lap.

A growl rumbled up deep in his chest as his cock bumped against her stomach, her body seeming to stretch out as she pressed as much of her naked chest to him as she could. They both groaned; it felt so good to press against another body in a way that wasn’t out of fear or necessity in battle.  Draping her hands down his back, Morgan dragged her nails up over his shoulder blades, shivering when he growled.  Alive and powerful and _hers_.  She kissed him again, reaching between them to wrap her hand around his cock.  Bull growled into the kiss, bucking into her tight grip.

Suddenly, Morgan found herself being lifted, Bull’s body surging under her as he came to his feet. Her back thumped into the desk as Bull dropped her, crowding over her as he gathered her wrists above her head.  Morgan’s whine of disappointment was lost when he pressed two fingers into her without hesitation, instantly curling them in the slick heat.  Morgan’s scratched back arched up off the desk, her hips bucking as Bull’s thumb slid up to draw slickness over her clit.  She expected him to be quick, simply getting her ready before he took her.  But even in the fevered need that seemed to be going through them both, Bull was still as patient as ever. 

He took her slowly through her pleasure, finding what made her cry the loudest and sticking to it. Again, his horns scraped the stone as he leaned over her, crowding his body above hers.  She wanted to struggle against him, to feel how truly trapped she was.  But she would also probably start spitting if Bull stopped now, and didn’t want to have to explain that she wasn’t actually trying to get away.  Instead her body trembled and hummed, legs lifting to lock around the backs of Bull’s thighs, hips starting an involuntary rocking.  Pleasure crested and fell, over and again until her body was beaded with sweat and her head was thrashing from side to side.  Every inch of her aching body was fighting the orgasm, but Bull was relentless, slipping in a third finger as she teetered on the edge.

When she did come, it ripped through her, already sore muscles tightening throughout her body. She forgot to breathe as heat burst outwards from her core, her bucking hips riding out the sensation on Bull’s hand, a fresh rush of wetness coating his fingers.  “So fucking good for me,” he praised, gathering her back into his arms. 

With her body still trembling with aftershocks, she wrapped her arms around his neck, humming into his chest as he took a few steps back and dropped into the massive armchair. She felt his hands slide under her thighs, lifting her again until she was able to get her feet under her, braced on either side of him.  She felt the broad head of his cock at her entrance, and her head fell back with a long groan as she began to ease herself down.  Her thighs trembled, and her mouth fell open with a keening whine.  Her nails bit into his shoulders, and he practically purred.

Bull had had his fair share of beautiful lovers in every shape, size, and color. But there was something particularly striking about the small, pudgy, tattooed rogue lowering herself onto his cock inch by agonizing inch, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and a full body flush creeping over her love bitten breasts.  He drew a rough thumb over her tattoos, skimming the sensitive underside of her breasts.  Morgan shivered, struggling not to just fall forward onto the solid warmth of Bull’s chest.

“So damn good, Morgan,” he growled, flexing his fingers on her hips. “Do you know how good you look taking all of me like this?”  He stroked her trembling thighs, and she whimpered.  While she wanted to just drop down, to just _have_ him already, she also needed to savor it.  Every moment of excruciating pleasure was more proof that they were both _here_ , both _alive_.  Bull’s cock was hot and thick and perfect, riding the razor’s edge of pain as it spread her open.  It was grounding, destroying the dream-like haze that had clung to her since the Fade.  This was _real_.

When Morgan’s hips finally settled against Bull’s, they both groaned, his brow falling forward to rest on the top of her head. She placed shaky kisses along the edge of his vitaar, sucking on the bite she’d left on his pectoral the previous night.  She liked that she could leave marks on Bull.  No one would ever question it, and since she herself didn’t run around mostly shirtless, most of her marks were easy to cover.  As Bull stroked a hand down her marked neck, she smirked.  She might have to start wearing scarves, though.

Finally looking up, she found Bull smirking darkly down on her. His hands dropped back to her hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles as he relaxed back into the chair.  “Fuck yourself on me,” he rumbled.  The words went through her as sharply and as surely as a direct touch, the expectation of complete obedience and the smirk making her tremble a little.  At her pause, he caught a nipple between his fingers, pinching and lifting, letting the weight of her breast add to the pain.  “Do as you’re told, Inquisitor.”

“I’m sorry!” Morgan gasped, arching up in and attempt to ease the pain. Bull just lifted higher, loving the way she squirmed in his lap.

“Are you going to be a good girl and do as you’re told?” Another lance of pleasure at his words startled her, and she nodded quickly.  Bull let go, easing back into the chair like a lord on his throne.  “Good.  Get to work then.”  Adjusting her feet under her and putting her hands on Bull’s shoulders, Morgan pulled herself back up.  The slick drag made them both groan, Morgan’s turning breathy at the end.  He stroked his hands up and down her raw back, occasionally tracing the path of a scar. 

Morgan’s own weight dragged her back down, and she gasped when she seated herself again. She let herself linger for a moment before rising back up again.  Her rhythm was slow and unsteady, her aching limbs protesting the renewed activity.  But Bull’s constant touch and his quiet rumbles of pleasure kept her moving.  As she rose and fell, her legs started to shake, her nails biting into Bull’s shoulders.  Just when she thought she was going to fall, Bull’s hands caught her by the thighs, tilting her forward so that her brow fell against his chest.  Her whimpered apology turned into a jerking series of cries as he started to fuck up into her, pushing her down with each upward jerk of his hips.

Each thrust robbed of her a little more power, the rhythm swiftly picking up speed, until it was all she could do to just hold on. Bull growled as she bit low on his shoulder, nails tight on the back of his neck.  Her cunt squeezed him tightly, and he could feel her tightening her inner muscles with each upward thrust.  Ignoring the strain in his neck, he leaned down and bit her shoulder, sharp enough that his canines pricked the already tender skin.  The lance of sharp pain made her body jerk and clench around him, her hips squirming weakly in his grip.  He dragged the flat of his tongue along her neck, tasting the raw skin. 

Her bad hip began to grind, and he felt it under his hand, but the moment he started to slow, she bit him, _hard_.  “Don’t you dare stop,” she growled.  The rest of the world cracked and crumbled, and she let herself drown in sensations, senses filled with nothing but Bull.  He was _alive_ , and so was she.

Despite having witnessed a great deal of evidence to the contrary, it still amazed him that the little rogue could take all of him. There were human men and women that had had difficulty with him, but the plump little dwarf took his cock like she’d been made to, making such pretty noises as she bit and clawed at him.  He couldn’t wait to get her back to Skyhold, where he could really have fun with her.  Just the thought of her covered in loops of bright crimson rope was enough to make him shudder. 

And beyond all that, beyond the submission and the fantastic tits, she had become so unbelievably strong. She had started out so damn scared, flinching at every death.  And now… Now she had banished the biggest fucking demon that he had ever seen, and she wasn’t even a mage.  The demon was _gone_ , it couldn’t get him.  He pressed her close, trying to take in as much of her as possible, climax starting to tighten like a knot at the base of his spine.

Morgan’s eyes fluttered closed, and she sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. She could feel her body tightening again, aching and sore but nearing a second climax.  Whimpering, she grabbed Bull’s shoulders.  The mark crackled against his skin, brighter than the torches and making her fingers glow red from beneath.  She felt as if she were wound tight enough to break, Bull’s thrusts taking on a desperate sort of rhythm.  He could feel himself falling, and wanted her to follow him over the edge. 

His free hand came between them, finding her clit one last time. The wave crashed over both of them, her scream tangling with his roar of release.  He kept moving, fucking up into her with short, rapid strokes, cum leaking from her to roll down her thighs between them.  As the clenching of her cunt slowed, his hips stuttered to a halt, and he hunched over her, breathing hard.   When he lifted his head, Morgan was smiling sleepily up at him, lids heavy and her arms hanging limply from his shoulders.  It was hard not to just take a moment to appreciate how damn good she looked. 

They stayed like that for a while, Morgan limp against his chest. Finally, he lifted a hand to brush her cheek.  “Hey, you still with me boss?” 

Morgan nodded, arms sliding down from around his neck. “Ow,” she said plainly, voice a husky whisper.  But her smile remained.

Grinning above her, Bull shook his head. “You did really good,” he said, stroking her cheek.  “You hurt so damn pretty.”

Morgan found herself actually blushing at the odd praise, a shy smile pulling at her slightly swollen lips. “It was… different,” she finally said.  She tried to find a better set of words to describe the way Bull had painted pain in among the pleasure, but her mind was still recovering, and no other words came.  Her eyes fell on a fresh set of marks going down his chest, redish-purple and raised beside the bruising ring of her bite. 

“Gonna have to tie you up next time,” Bull teased. They were both still in sore need of an actual bath, but neither of themselves to bring themselves to care.

“Don’t you threaten me with a good time,” Morgan mumbled sleepily, and grinned when Bull laughed. “Now… as comfy as you are, we should probably… clean up a bit.” 

“Probably,” Bull said, but lingered for a few moments. Finally, he eased her off of him, getting to his feet and setting her down on the edge of the chair.  Morgan perched there, eyes half closed and listening to Bull move about the room.  He came back with one of her shirts, which had apparently been torn quite badly in her hurry to remove it.  They both gave a sheepish short of smile before Bull cleaned them both. 

When that was done, a canteen was pressed into her hands, and she drank obediently. As her senses sharpened out of the haze, the whole body ache began to settle in, mixing pleasantly with the afterglow.  As she sipped the water, Bull relaced his trousers.  He picked her up and sat back down, letting her sit cross-wise across his lap, her feet dangling over the arm of the chair, his arm wrapped around her back.  Despite the drying sweat and the renewed ache between her legs, Morgan had no intention of moving anytime soon.  The Inquisition could manage without her for a few more minutes.

“Pretty sure Varric knows,” she finally said.

“You okay with that?” he asked, glad to have something to talk about that wasn’t demons.

“With him knowing?” Morgan tilted her head to the side, thinking and taking her time deciding how she wanted to respond.  “Normally, I wouldn’t care if everyone knew.  Who I fuck is my business, and whatever they think of me or who I take to bed—or chair—wouldn’t matter in the slightest.  But…”  She sighed and trailed off.

“But shit isn’t exactly normal anymore, is it?”

She lifted her head and smiled at him ruefully. “I’m a very, _very_ public figure.  I have to entertain nobles and get them on our side.”  She made a face, tone becoming bitter and scathing.  “I’m the _Inquisitor_.  Everything I say and do is carefully measured.  There’ll always be rumors, but concrete evidence of me sleeping with _anyone_ would carry heavy consequences.  Granted, if I fucked the Empress of Orlais it might not be too bad.  If she wasn’t a giant racist twat.”

“And those racist twats won’t take kindly to their precious ‘Herald of Andraste’ bending over for some qunari mercenary,” Bull added, chuckling when Morgan’s lip curled. “I’m not exactly a stranger to being some important person’s dirty secret.”

That only made Morgan’s frown deepened. “I’m not ashamed of this,” she said hotly.  Then, a bit more softly, she added, “you don’t deserve that, you know.  People should point to you, and go, ‘look!  Look who I got to sleep with!  Isn’t he amazing?’  Shit like that.”  Bull blinked at her for a few moments, then burst out laughing.  “I’m serious!” Morgan insisted, though there was a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.  “You’re fucking glorious.”

It took Bull a moment to calm himself, actually wiping at his eye as he sank fully back into the chair. “Shit, now I can’t stop imagining you doing that in front of everyone.”  He laughed again, though it was a bit more subdued.  “Oh, poor Josephine might faint.”

Morgan couldn’t help herself, and snorted. “I mean… I can’t tell you you’re _wrong_ ,” she agreed, the tug at the edge of her lips turning to a full on grin.  “Though I’m not sure if she’d be more scandalized or turned on.  It’s always the quiet, refined ones that are the dirtiest in the bedroom.”

“You are neither quiet nor refined,” Bull pointed out, grinning hugely when Morgan’s cheeks flushed. A comfortable silence descended between them, and she continued to sip at the water.  Between the two of them, they drained Bull’s canteen and then her own.  Silence settled between them, as comfortable and as any moment on the road.  The easy way with which they had changed their dynamic was a little daunting to Morgan, but she also couldn’t stop smiling.

Eventually, she noticed that Bull was staring unabashedly at her chest. “How do you feel about nipple clamps?” he finally said, looking down at her with a crooked grin. Maker, that smile was a fucking _sin_.  One hand slid up to frame a breast in the L between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I… well, I never tried them,” Morgan said, the words coming out as a giggle.

“Well you seemed to enjoy my teeth.” A one eyed man trying to wink and waggle his eyebrows was far too ridiculous.

Morgan darted up and closed her own teeth around the lobe of a pointed ear, the hand on her thigh tightening. She bit a bit harder and a growl rumbled up.  With a gentle tug, she let go, leaving a trail of kisses down Bull’s thick neck before resting her head on his shoulder.  “And you enjoyed mine,” she murmured, very much enjoying the press of her body chest to his.  As always, he was like a furnace, radiating heat in the small stone room. 

“For someone that blushes at the slightest compliment, you’re a giant fucking tease,” Bull grumbled. Morgan could feel his intent gaze going over her body, his hands following his eye, checking scratches and bites.  Despite the clinical nature of the touch, Morgan felt an unfamiliar sort of warmth coming over her.  The time he took to make sure that she was alright, that none of his actions had caused her real harm… it was something new and altogether unknown.  It stirred something old inside her, something that nearly made her shy away.

But Bull wasn’t Mari, and the relationship between him and Morgan was far from romantic. Bull was the type that took care of his sexual partners, regardless of their relationship outside the bedroom.   Her fears quieted and fatigue started to take over again.  She felt herself drifting once or twice, and twitched in Bull’s lap whenever she pulled herself back to wakefulness.  After the third time, Bull chuckled.  “As much fun as it would be to see Cullen blush like a virgin Chantry sister when he came looking for us, we should probably get dressed.”

Morgan’s lips pursed and pulled to the side. “I have _never_ met a virgin Chantry sister,” she said wryly.  “And just so you know, those robes are _not_ big enough to hide a whole person underneath.  Even a dwarf.”

Bull just stared down at her, taking a moment to let the meaning of her words sink in. Then he burst out laughing, chest shaking as he tried to muffle the sound with a hand.  Morgan grinned up at him like a satisfied cat, immensely pleased with herself.  When Bull finally got himself back under control, his eye was sparkling.  He stared at her for a few moments, and there was something oddly soft in his gaze that made her squirm a bit. 

“Someday,” he said, helping her to her feet, “you’re going to have to tell me that story.”

They dressed slowly, easing armor back into place over bruises and bites. Replacing their weapons, they wandered back into the mess hall, which they found still empty.  Despite aching all over and feeling ready to pass out, Morgan squared her shoulders and went back up the stairs, knowing that someone would need to talk to her about several somethings before the night was out.  And Dorian would probably throw a fit if she didn’t at least check in with him.

 

000

 

Hawke tucked the sending crystal back into her belt, her mouth struggling to hide the frown that pulled at it. Marian turned her wife’s translation over in her head again and again, trying to make some sense of it.

_“Have you learned, trickster? That was no victory.  Your pride will be your death.”_

Why would the Nightmare call Solas a trickster? That, and the power that she had felt from the Elvhen mage in the Fade…  It was far beyond the magic of any mortal mage that Hawke had ever encountered.  The only comparison was…  She had to shake her head at that, tossing the image of the witch from her mind.  That was impossible, right? 

 

000

 

Willen Cadash decided that he hated Ferelden. It hadn’t been so bad at first, even if he wasn’t fond of rain.  But now his journey was taking him through the damn mountains, where there was no escaping the biting, icy wind.  The rest of the caravan he traveled with was full of humans and elves, all of them on a pilgrimage to Skyhold, where the fabled Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor had her stronghold.  The dwarf shook his head, shifting slightly in his bedroll.  Despite numerous intelligence reports, it was still hard for him to believe that the Inquisitor was the same Morgan Cadash that he’d watched grow up. 

The way people described the Herald, she was made of solid steel and carried a thousand daggers. The Morgan he knew had hated close combat.  He knew to take all the tales with at least several grains of salt.  The other Carta dwarves that had accompanied Morgan to the Conclave had died in the blast, so there was no firsthand information to go by.  That, and having the fucking Nightingale as the Inquisition spymaster had made it impossible to plant someone in their ranks.  And with Rebka surrounded by guards and not talking to anyone, the only thing left was to approach Morgan herself directly.

 

000

 

The sun was already climbing towards noon by the time Morgan was able to get away from Cullen, Cassandra, and Alistair. She and the others that had fallen into the Fade with her had all given their reports, and each been extensively questioned.  The fortress seemed a lot bigger when she wasn’t running through it killing demons.  It was all she could do not to start limping as she descending the hill, walking past the growing rows of white-shrouded bodies.  There would be funeral pyres that night, and a celebration in the name of the fallen.  She would be expected to be there, and probably make some sort of speech. 

Sera came upon her grimacing her way to her tent, the taller young woman having shed her armor. Her freckled face was still dirty, though it looked like an effort had been made to scrub away most of the blood.  “Hooks!”

Morgan jolted at the sound of her name, stopping in her tracks as Sera skidded to a halt in front of her. Almost at once, a smile cracked her tired face, glad to see the elf alive.  Sera was a bit strange, but Morgan enjoyed her company.  “Hey, Sera.  Glad you made it out okay.”

The look Sera gave her was strange, biting her lip and furrowing her brows, as if Morgan had uttered some sort of riddle. Her feet shifted nervously and her fingers plucked at a new tear in her overshirt.  “There’s people… saying… things,” she said haltingly, suddenly unable to meet the dwarf’s eye.

It took Morgan’s tired mind a moment to wrap around the elf’s words. “About what happened to me?” she offered.  Sera snuck a glance up at her, nodded, and looked away again.  Morgan sighed.  “Solas says we went into the Fade.  Normally he’s so full of hot air you could mistake him for the Orlesian royal court.”  Sera snorted at that, a bit of her smile returning.  “But… I think he was right.  There’s… no other explanation for what happened.”

Sera kicked a stone on the path. “Frigging magic.  Frigging _demons_.”

Instinctively, Morgan curled her left hand into her fist, suddenly very much _not_ wanting to tell Sera about exactly how the Nightmare had been defeated.  She knew that the younger woman was scared of magic, and liked her enough that she didn’t want to give her a reason to be uneasy around her.  She also remembered how much Sera had seemed to believe in the whole ‘Herald of Andraste’ thing, and Morgan’s heart instantly began to ache.  She didn’t have the energy to explain how the Anchor was just an accident.  Not yet.

“They’re going to have to try harder if they want to kill me,” Morgan said stubbornly, offering her best smile.

Sera’s face cracked into a wide grin. “Whatever got yer neck was _trying_ somethin’, alright,” she giggled.  Morgan’s face flushed, and her hand flew to her torn collar.  Sera snorted.  “I knew it!  I told Varric you were walkin’ funny, but he said I was seeing things!” 

“Anyone would limp if they got tossed through the Fade,” Morgan said, stepping around the elf and starting to walk again. Had Cullen and the others seen?  They had all been as haggard and heavy-eyed as her, so there was a chance they could have thought it a bruise of a different kind.

“You’re not limpin’!” Sera said, long legs making it easy to follow. “ _You’re_ walkin’ like you took it right up the dales!”  Morgan nearly stopped in her tracks, but forced herself to keep moving.  Sera kept up, cackling.  “’Bout frigging time, though.  If you didn’t find someone, I was gonna toss you an’ Bull in a room together and lock the door!”

It took all of Morgan’s considerable self-control not to react. Instead, she rolled her eyes.  “Yes, because I so enjoy the idea of being skewered,” she said, shaking her head.  Had her tent been moved?  She could have sworn that it was closer.

“Nu-uh,” Sera insisted. “You dwarf ladies are…”  She trailed off, seeming unable to find the appropriate words, and Morgan saw her made a rather suggestive gesture with her fingers all together and her thumb drawn in against her palm.  Morgan couldn’t help but laugh.  “And you like him, right?”

“It’s pretty hard _not_ to like Bull,” Morgan pointed out.

“You’re doing that dwarfy-carty thing,” Sera said accusingly. It took Morgan a moment to realize that the elf had meant ‘Carta’.  “You’re being all sneaky with your words and shit.”  She kept her eyes narrowed as they walked, and Morgan sighed in defeat.

“Yes, I like Bull, Sera,” she said plainly. “We’ve been fighting together for… Maker, how long has it been?”  She realized that it had been months since she first set foot in Ferelden.  And with the way things were going, she was going to be there for a while longer.  “You know I like you, too, right?  I mean…”  She still wasn’t very good at the whole ‘friend’ thing.  “It’s good having someone around who isn’t all tangled up in politics and shit.  You, Bull, Varric… you don’t judge someone for their birth or who they fuck or anything like that.”  She found herself offering a genuine smile.  “I’m glad you’re here, Sera.”

“Pff, tell Ruffles that sometime,” Sera snorted, eyes darting away. They parted ways, and Morgan stumbled into her tent.  She barely managed to get her armor off before her eyes were drooping. When she finally ended up on the cot, she was naked, a trail of leather, metal and cloth leading to her bed.  Mercifully, she was too fatigued for real sleep, and so it was black and dreamless.

 

000

 

With all the really important people busy with documenting everything, Bull had been released after intense questioning. Though the soldier asking questions had seemed overly rushed and nervous.  A grumpy, beat-up, sleep-deprived qunari could be rather intimidating, so he couldn’t really blame the kid.  After that, he’d been able to catch a few hours sleep.  It wasn’t terribly restful, as his brain decided that it was _great_ idea to replay everything that had happened in the Fade, with the added addition of the one time he’d accidentally struck a hornet nest with his axe in the middle of a fight.  So he was still beat-up and grumpy, and not much better in the sleep department.

The food and ale being distributed helped, but mostly because they were serving the greasy, salty sausages he liked. It was no Antivan chorizo, but they were still tasty.  Normally, he would have gone to the tavern or wherever the Chargers had set themselves up, letting their familiar voices and even more familiar stories wash over him.  Without them around, it was better to just find a secluded spot and enjoy his drink.  He’d have been happy to spend the rest of the day like that, half dozing in the shade of the massive, ruined fortress, while the sun and temperature began their climb.  The heat was calming and familiar.

Another familiar dwarf seemed to have different ideas for how Bull’s day should go. Varric leaned his back against the relatively cooler stone, a mug in his hand.  Bull’s eyes narrowed slightly; Varric didn’t drink.  But it didn’t smell like ale or any other type of booze.  So the only remaining question was why the writer had decided on this particular spot to lean.  “If _you_ start asking me questions about this mess, I’m chucking you off the Abyssal Edge,” Bull muttered, taking another pull of ale.

Varric snorted. “Yeah, discussing that isn’t on my list of things I wanna do right now.”  He eyed Bull curiously.  “I guess you already did your celebrating, huh?”

Bull was fully aware the marks that Morgan had left behind were on full display, alongside the quickly darkening bruises he’d taken while fighting. Granted, love bites and scratches from humanoid hands looked a bit different than blows suffered from pissed off demons. He shrugged his big shoulders and said nothing.  Varric was fishing, and wasn’t being that subtle about it either.  It didn’t matter if he knew, unless he started talking, which would mean Morgan probably station him in the Fallow Mire for a month.  Bull couldn’t help but smile at that thought.

Varric wasn’t a spy in the way Morgan or Bull were. But he was smart, observant, and he knew people.  He knew what stress did to a person if they had no way to resolve it.  There were only four people he knew of that could lie to his face and get away with it, and he was looking at one of them now.  A wave of awkwardness gripped him, and he suppressed a grumble by taking a drink of his tea.  It was bitter and tepid, but it wasn’t beer, so that was something.  Was it really his business?  Did he have a fucking leg to stand on when it came to Hook’s personal life?  He took another, longer drink.

Despite having dozens of friends, and even more people he got along with, but people that actually _mattered_ … they were rare.  He’d come to the grudging realization that he didn’t just _like_ Morgan.  Despite his better judgement, he’d let someone else in, and now they mattered.  Now he _cared_.  While that was all well and good, and came with a lovely set of problems, even worse was the fact that he couldn’t overlook things.  Like her sleeping with a Ben-Hassrath spy.  It was _probably_ a good thing; Maker knew the poor girl needed a distraction.  But Varric’s last encounter with qunari had been decidedly unpleasant, and ended up with children dying in the streets while Hawke got about as close to a rage demon as a person could get without being possessed.

Morgan… Morgan was _special_.  It didn’t matter that she’d gotten the Mark by accident, what she’d done with had _made_ her special.  She’d come up from this terrified girl who paled at the sight of demons.  That first day in the mountains, he’d seen her need to run so plainly, her mask lost to her terror.  It hadn’t even been a year, and the transformation couldn’t have been more drastic.  She was still _her_ , all snark and dirty jokes and kindness.  But that strength…  Someone like her didn’t deserve to be hurt.  And Varric knew she had been.  Badly.  She might have told Bull in a bit more detail, but Varric had learned enough.  Whatever she had with Bull was probably pretty far from romantic, but…

“Varric,” Bull’s voice cut in on the dwarf’s thoughts. “Spit it out.”

Looking up, Varric realized that he’d gotten so lost in his own head that he hadn’t noticed the direct stare that the qunari had leveled at him. Suppressing the shiver that ran down his spine, he cleared his throat, and took one last drink of his tea.  Might as well just get it out.  “If you hurt her, I’ll turn you into a pincushion.”

Bull blinked, and looked like he had actually been taken by surprise. Then his eye narrowed slightly, and Varric felt the familiar discomfort he always did when someone exceptionally smart and deadly stared at him.  The silence dragged, making the dry, hot hair feel almost heavy.  Then, Bull did something very unexpected.  He smiled.  His shoulders relaxed, and he drained the last of his ale before speaking.  “She’s lucky she has people like you,” he said, and the expression on his face was uncomfortably close to being _fond_. 

“So we’re just gonna gloss over the part where I threatened your life?” Varric said, completely unconvinced.

“Look, as you probably guessed, I’m not exactly the flowers and romance type,” Bull said. Varric had to snort at that, and gave a shrug of agreement.  “I know some people want that, but I’m not going to give them any sort of hope that they’ll get that with _me_.”  He crossed his arms over his chest, and somehow managed to make it look casual instead of intimidating.  “She told you about her girlfriend, right?”  Varric must have visibly flinched.  “Thought so.  So you probably know she’s not looking for romance, either.”

“People can still get hurt, Tiny,” Varric said softly. He knew he’d kill for Hawke and Daisy, hell, he _had_.  He’d killed for the others, too, and would do it again.  Even Blondie.  It was a bit startling to realize that there was someone else he’d kill for.

Something unreadable crossed Bull’s face. “You really care about her, don’t you?” 

The words were far, _far_ too personal, and Varric shrugged dismissively.  “She’s been through enough.”

“Look, I’d ask you to supervise, but I haven’t asked if that’s something she’d enjoy,” Bull said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

Varric blinked, feeling heat rise in his face before he managed to laugh and shake his head. “Shit, you really never stop, do you?” he said.

“Nope.” Bull let his eyes close, hoping to nap a bit more.  “It’s part of my charm.”  He felt Varric look at him for a while longer before the dwarf snorted.  Bull heard him move away, probably shaking his head.  Eye still closed, Bull grinned widely, and his shoulders began to shake with silent mirth.

 

000

 

Morgan appeared before the funeral pyre detail in plain clothes, her face scrubbed and hair pinned back. At first, they misunderstood her, saying that she didn’t have to worry about anything; all the details were taken care of.  They realized their mistake when she brushed past them and began to help the others, shrouding the bodies that had been laid out. 

There were those that stared in confusion; why would the Inquisitor herself stoop to such a task? It was only the older soldiers that understood, only those that had once held some manner of command.  Even though her face was blank, and her voice was calm, they saw the weight on her shoulders as she attended to the dead.  She had been their commander, and they had died while under _her_ command, while following _her_ orders.  She could not have named more than a few dozen, but each had fought and died for her cause, so she took responsibility. 

The sunburst badges far outnumbered the badges of a flowing, stylized tree, the symbol that had been chosen for those that worshiped the Elvhen Pantheon. Those bodies were set aside to be sent off in accordance with their faith.  As it turned out, it wasn’t the gore, or the smell of death that bothered her.  Somehow, she had gotten used to those things.  It was the eyes.  They held the same power as they had after that first battle in the Hinterlands; blind and clouding, but still somehow accusing. 

She felt the pain of their loss as if from a distance, observing her own actions in a similar fashion. Morgan felt like she was just floating through things, going through the motions.  She _knew_ that she was sad, that all this death hurt to look at.  But the numbness prevailed, protecting her from the rawness of the sheer loss of her people.  It didn’t help when the Wardens began bringing out their dead.  There were so many with slit throats, sacrificed for Erimond’s mad scheme.  If she had killed Erimond in the Western Approach the first time, none of this would have happened, none of those men and woman would have died…

A slender brown hand alighted on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

Morgan considered it a small personal victory that she didn’t instantly reach for a weapon when Cole appeared at her elbow. But she did flinch, and the hand quickly fell away.  “Hello, Cole,” she managed.  She offered a small smile, and while it was weak, it was genuine.  She didn’t like to think that Cole was upset with her, and she knew her decision not to banish the Wardens hadn’t gone over well with the spirit-boy.

“They’re not hurting any more. You don’t have to hurt for them.  You hurt enough for yourself already.”

Morgan was short enough that she could always see his face, even with his ridiculously large hat brim. She glanced up for a moment, and his bright blue eyes were so open and sincere, that she quickly had to look away.  “They died for me, Cole,” she whispered.

“No, they didn’t,” Cole said firmly. “They died for their homes, for a warm fire where children can play without fear, for mage children that won’t be born and… and forgotten.  They didn’t die for you.  They died for themselves.”

She _wanted_ to believe him.  “If not for me, they wouldn’t have had to fight at all…”

Cole tilted his head, something tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if his face couldn’t quite decide how it wanted to look. “You did enough,” he finally said.  Morgan hid her flinch, but Cole still somehow knew.  “That hurts you… why does that hurt?  You don’t… believe me?”  The genuine concern and confusion on such a sweet, innocent face was touching.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Morgan said. “For the Wardens…”

“ _They_ hurt people, not you. _You_ just wanted to stop the hurting.  Including theirs.”  He looked away, still uncomfortable.  “They can’t hurt people again…”

Morgan straightened at that, shoulders squaring. “If they do, I’ll drive them into the sea myself.”

Cole looked back. “You mean that…”  He smiled, so bright and sweet that it made her heart ache.  “I’m glad.” 

Smiling back, a bit of the weight lifted off her shoulders. She _liked_ Cole, and the good he did.  Even though she didn’t always understand him.  He always wanted to help, to make things better.  And from the few odd stories she’d heard around Skyhold, he’d had some measure of success.  Her musings were brought back to the present as the wind changed, the scent of death gusting past them.

Cole’s next words were just as jarring. “Soft heart, kind, edged in daggers, don’t let them see.  Can’t see me cry.  Stand up, shoulders back, face blank.  Not a twitch; it’ll give me away.”  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his head tilt to the side, far too much like an inquisitive puppy hearing a strange noise.  “You don’t… want them to see.  You’re trying to be bigger, more than… they just see you.  Smiling, bright eyes, jokes I can’t tell my children but, Maker, they’re funny.  A good woman, strong.  Glad she’s here.  It’d take a dwarf to make sense of all this magic mess.  Good, sensible head on her shoulders.  She won’t let the Templars hurt us.”  He blinked, face brightening again.  “That helped!”

It _had_.  While it was a bit unsettling he could read people’s minds, it was also a huge relief to know that she was _wanted_ , that what she was doing was good and approved of.  The knot in her shoulders loosened a bit, and she was able to exhale.  “How would you like to come out with us, Cole?” she asked.  “Out of Skyhold.”

“You go out to help,” Cole said. “I like to help.”  He paused, eye flicking down at her hands in a familiar motion.  “You’re brighter now.  Warm magic and light in the dark.”  Then he was gone, leaving Morgan a great deal more confused, but less sad.

 

000

 

Both Wardens and Inquisition soldiers gathered for the lighting of the pyres. The Chant was sung, and prayers were sun in Elvhen.  The Inquisition would honor the faith of each and every one of its soldiers.  Each pyre was lit by a flaming arrow, and soon the orange glow lit the desert, chasing away the night chill.  The real celebration was waiting for them back at Skyhold, and Morgan was sure that Josephine was already scurrying about the castle in the process of getting everything ready.  But ale was still drunk, songs were still sung, and tales of the departed were told.

Morgan found herself drinking something that she was fairly sure was just wine with whiskey in it, and she was feeling pleasantly fuzzy when Varric wandered over. Hawke was with him, looking a great deal more cheerful than the last time Morgan had seen her.  It was also slightly bizarre to see her without her spiky mage armor, just a woman in plain Free Marcher clothes.  Morgan lifted her bottle to them as they approached, settling on the same chunk of stone where she sat.  Varric leaned, arms crossed across his chest.  For a few moments, the three of them just looked out over the crowds.

“I’ll say one thing for Fereldens,” Varric chuckled, watching a couple of young men attempt to lift a full barrel of ale unassisted. “They know how to throw a party!”

“I dunno, Isabela threw some pretty good ones,” Hawke said, a huge grin spreading across her face and hinting at a _very_ interesting story.

Varric actually covered his face with his hands. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?” he sighed.

All traces of age seemed to have vanished from the Champion’s face, and she grinned back. “Nope,” she said cheerfully.  Her eyes slid over her friend to Morgan, and some of the glee faded.  “Are you doing alright?”

“Pff!” Morgan snorted.  “No!  But…”  She looked around, and saw Sera throwing dice with a couple of dwarves, and Dorian grinning while Cullen blushed.  Then, over the heads of everyone, she saw a familiar set of horns, headed their way, and found herself smiling as well.  Still smiling, she looked back to Hawke.  “But I’ve got good friends here.  Being with them, it helps.”

Marian nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Oh! Have you heard from your brother?” Morgan blurted.  “I know you were worried…”

“Carver’s doing fine,” the older woman said, and her sigh was one of genuine relief. “I got him and Merrill sending crystals so we could keep in touch.  He and Aviline are bickering, but he said that the Calling stopped.”  She nodded to the blue-clad figures scattered among the Inquisition green and brown.  “The others are saying the same thing.  We stopped it.  Well,” she nodded at Morgan, “ _you_ stopped it.”

“Don’t start that shit,” Morgan said, a bit louder than she’d intended. “I couldn’t have banished it without you and Solas.”

“Well… we couldn’t have done that without you,” Hawke said, sticking out her tongue, and startling a laugh from Morgan. Merrill’s translation lingered in the back of Marian’s head, but now was not a time for such things.  Now was a time to breathe, to bask in the brief moment of victory before whatever else was waiting came crashing down.

Bull finally emerged from the crowd, the pint of ale he held looking tiny in his big hand. “Boss!  You started drinking without me!” he said accusingly.

“I can’t help it if you’re so breathtaking that all the pretty young things are throwing themselves at your feet,” Morgan sniffed, while her eyes danced with mirth.

Bull nicked the bottle of mystery alcohol from behind her and took a sip, ignoring her indignant squawk. “I had a previous engagement,” he said, putting on his best ‘offended nobleman’ accent and expression.  Unable to help herself, Morgan cackled before grabbing the bottle back.  Bull sat down next to her, taking a long pull of ale that left a foamy mustache on his upper lip.  Morgan dissolved into giggles, nearly laughing until she cried.  For a few hours, she was able to forget, and that was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy with this right now. That may change, but for now I'll take it! Anyways, while we take a breather, I have a question for you guys. I want to write a threesome with Bull and Morgan, well, two, actually. I have one planned, but I'm trying to figure out who the third should be in the other one. I'm thinking male, but I have NO IDEA who I should use. Just bringing a regular soldier into something so personal wouldn't be an option, so it would have to be someone that Bull and Morgan trust at least a little. I have a few thoughts, but I'd honestly like to hear from you guys if you have any ideas! As always, thank you for reading and let me know what you thought!


	18. Shattered Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut, some plot.

Shattered Stone:

 

The army returning to Skyhold was greeted with as much fanfare as Morgan had expected, a cheer erupting from the walls as soon as they crested the hill.  There were even trumpets playing.  Riding into the courtyard showed them banners and pennants hung from nearly every available surface, and every person there to greet them was smiling.  There was such joy in every face, smiles and cheers and laughter coming from every corner.  But there was only one greeting that Morgan was interested in.  A blur of black and white shot down the castle steps, and Morgan swung down from the saddle.  Hinter burst through the crowd, nearly knocking Morgan over as he met her, whining and running in circles around her. 

Finally he went still, leaning his weight against her and craning his head back to lick her face.  His tail swept the stones under his feet, sending up small clouds of dust.  Morgan buried her face in his neck, hugging him tightly.  As the others rode in, stable hands rushed in to take their horses, and Morgan straightened.  She smiled watching her friends swing down with everything from grace to just plain awkwardness.  Hinter ran back for a moment to greet the others, but quickly returned, tail still wagging madly. 

She felt a swelling in her chest, and at first mistook it for a rise of anxiety at the crowds so intent with their attention.  Then she realized, as she looked up at the massive fortress and couldn’t help but smile, that she was _home_.  _This_ was where she imagined coming back to, with this rag-tag group of people.  These were _her_ people.  The realization hit her like a blow, and she suddenly felt light headed.  Then she saw Bull, all smiles in his freshly polished armor, a love bite fading but still visible on his neck.  Her smile strained her cheeks and tears pricked her eyes; she felt almost breathless, even though Storm was the one that had carried her all the way up the hill.

Then the soldiers started to file in, and Morgan was swept up in a crowd of them intent on hoisting them above their heads.  Before she could protest, Bull was called over, and Morgan found herself lifted up, her legs over his shoulders and her hands holding his horns for balance.  She laughed, fresh cheers rising from those below her, and then people started to throw flower petals.  They came down in a slow, fragrant rain from the battlements and walkways, catching in hair and clothing and sprinkling bright color among the earthy tones of the army.

It took some time to get to the steps up the main hall, everyone pressing in and calling up their congratulations.  Bull finally let her down, and she was swept off my Josephine.  Hinter followed every step, and after a brief whirl of activity, Morgan found herself in her rooms again, standing before a steaming tub, and with fresh clothes laid out on her bed.  As the silence pressed in on her ears, she stood still for a moment, hand resting on Hinter’s side. 

Multiple healing potions over the trip back had eased most of her aches and healed most of her wounds.  But the hot water still felt heavenly, and she let her head drop back against the rim for a moment.  As she bathed, Hinter remained at her side, tail thumping the floor whenever she looked his way.  When she had finished and stepped out to dress, she found herself smiling again.  Instead of some fancy gown or a silk tunic, Josephine had had fresh leathers laid out, with the slightly longer sleeveless coat that Morgan had mentioned a fondness for.  There was something deeply touching in Josephine knowing her tastes, though Morgan was sure that the ambassador had half a dozen gowns and sets of formal wear in her size stashed away somewhere in the castle.

After dressing, Morgan found a little cluster of glass bottles on her night stand.  Leaning over, she realized that they were perfume oils.  Poking through them, the label with the red ink caught her eye.  _Dragon’s Blood_ , it read.  When she took a sniff, it was full of fire and smoke and spice.  With a shrug, she put a dab on each wrist, and at the hollow of her throat.  She had only just finished pulling a brush through her hair when a knock came at her door.  Hinter gave a muted bark as Josephine’s quick footsteps came up the stairs.

“Inquisitor?  Oh, good, you’re ready!”  She beckoned, smiling.  “Come along, they want you to break open the first barrel.”  Her eyes were just as bright as her smile, and Morgan’s good mood persisted, even as they entered the crowded main hall, the smells of meat and food filling the air.  As she was noticed, more cheers went up, and it was easy to keep her smile in place as she was swept along in the victorious current.

 

000

 

It took several hours before Morgan was able to make her way down to the Herald’s rest.  Outside there had been cook fires and roasting meat and free-flowing drink.  Everyone and their mother wanted to congratulate or thank her, but she just wanted to be in a place where she felt safe to drink.  She was able to duck through the entrance as a cluster of people flowed out, and after that, it was easy to pick through the crowd and pop up at Krem’s elbow.

“Maker’s tits!”  Then young man nearly spilled his ale, then shot a narrow-eyed look at Morgan as she grinned sheepishly.  “You’re as bad as Skinner.”  His golden face softened, and he pushed over on the bench, his elbow brushing Stitches.  “Have a seat, Cadash!  You like fruity things, right?”  He practically snatched a bottle out of Dalish’s hand and poured a measure of some golden liquid into a small squat mug.  “Peach brandy.”

Morgan sniffed first, and indeed, the alcohol smelled like summer peaches.  It was sweet fire in her mouth, warming her throat as she swallowed.  She blinked at the cup for a moment before pushing the bottle back to Dalish.  “If you don’t take that away from me, I’ll drink the whole thing,” she said, taking another sip.  “Tastes like candy.”

Krem laughed, his eyes bright and sparkling.  Maker, he was pretty.  Not in the same way as Bull, but still lovely to look at.  “The only ones that like stuff that sweet are Dalish and the Chief.”

“Nothing wrong with enjoying the sweet things in life, Krem,” Bull’s voice said, making Morgan look up.  He was carrying two massive pitchers of ale, and a cheer went up from the Chargers as he set them down on the table.  He filled his own tankard, then dropped back into his usual chair, turned to face the end of table at Morgan’s left.  He stretched his legs out like a cat, sighing contentedly as he leaned back in his chair.

“There’s sweet, and then there’s the stuff _you_ like,” Krem sniffed.

“Not my fault ‘Vints have no taste,” Bull shot back. 

“Considering the pants you wear, you do _not_ get to talk about taste,” Morgan put in.  Krem blinked, and then burst out laughing, while Bull put on his best expression of wounded dignity.

“See, that’s why I like you, Cadash,” the Tevinter said, clapping her on the shoulder. 

“Because she’s an asshole?” Bull grumbled, but there was no real hurt in his eye.

Morgan raised her eyebrows at the qunari.  “You’re an asshole, and he likes _you_ ,” she pointed out.

Bull’s face brightened.  “Yeah, Crème Puff, it’s _you_ that has terrible taste.  Hah!”  He grinned victoriously and took a long drink of ale. 

“Nah, he just pays better than anyone else,” Krem told Morgan. 

But there was a fondness in his eyes that was impossible to ignore, and a rueful half smile curved Morgan’s lips.  It took a great deal to earn that kind of trust, and it spoke of Bull’s skill as a commander.  Looking over at the qunari, her smile stuck and widened.  She was so damn lucky.  Even if she and Bull hadn’t slept together, and she’d found someone else to blow off steam with, she was still lucky to count him as a friend.  She found herself wondering if there were others like Bull living under the Qun, free with their love and their words, living as loudly as they pleased.  Whether he was a common occurrence or an aberration from the norm, Morgan was very, _very_ glad that their paths had crossed.

Krem was talking again.  “At least I have the sense to cover up when I get bitten all over,” he said, rolling his eyes.  Morgan snorted and half-coughed into her drink, and thankfully, Krem mistook her meaning.  “See, the Inquisitor is too polite to say that you look like a Rivani leopard.”

Morgan peeked at Bull out of the corner of her eye.  Since Adamant, they had only been able to steal a few moments alone together, but that hadn’t stopped them from marking each other up.  She winked quickly at Bull, then shrugged.  “I think it’d be stranger if he suddenly started wearing a shirt, actually,” she said, glad that the drink gave her an excuse to have slightly flushed cheeks. 

Krem snorted, nodding in grudging agreement.  Abruptly, he paused, drink halfway to his lips as he stared across the tavern.  Morgan’s eyes flicked from his flushing face to the door, where Scout Harding had just entered.  “I’m… going to get another drink,” Krem said, ignoring the still half full pitcher of ale in front of him.  Morgan got up to let him pass, and stood by Bull’s chair watching the young man wander in the general direction of the door.

“Oh, God, he’s _adorable_ ,” Morgan finally muttered.  When she looked back, Bull was leaning towards her, eyes slightly narrowed.  Curious, she tilted her head.  “Bull?”

His hand snuck out, snagging her belt with two fingers and pulling her a step closer to his chair.  His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, then looked her in the eye with an odd mix of heat and curiosity.  “You smell _amazing_ ,” he murmured, voice lost to everyone but Morgan in the hubbub of the tavern.  More color rose to her cheeks, his hand dropping to curl around the back of her thigh. 

More than anything, Morgan just wanted to lean into him, to feel his arm wrap around her waist as he dragged her into his lap…  The image of a serving girl perched on Bull’s knee flashed through her head, a memory from the early days of Skyhold.  An odd tangle of emotions knotted up in her chest.  Jealousy for the serving girl that could be free with her affections, and discomfort that she felt the former.  Jealousy was for people in love, not… not for what she had.

Bull’s touch lingered, tracing the line where her thighs met.  He tilted his head, turning to get a better look at her face.  Her mask had gone up, her face appearing neutral and calm.  Considering she’d been freely smiling moment ago, it was probably a good sign that there was something going on.  “Boss?”

Morgan blinked, then pursed her lips and pulled them to the side, giving a small shake of her head.  “I used to be able to get away with stewing in my own head,” she said ruefully.  “You’re too smart for your own good, Bull.”

“Hey, don’t tell anyone,” he said, and offered that damned smile. 

It was comfort so soft that it made her ache.  It promised safety and warmth, and stupid puns and sinful dreams.  Just his smile made her heart flutter, and she had to look away.  But why shouldn’t she have someone that made her feel safe?  Why shouldn’t she take her comfort where she could, when fate had taken it upon itself to paint a giant target on her back?  She _deserved_ to be happy!  She had fought her whole life with her own mind robbing her of joy, taking the spark out of the things she enjoyed most.  Why shouldn’t she enjoy the safety she felt with Bull?

“Meet me outside.”  She pulled away from his touch, putting on a smile as she moved back through the crowd, bidding her farewells and telling the patrons to vomit outside and not on Cabot’s freshly cleaned floors.  She was waved off with cheers and drunken, clumsy salutes.  Bull felt a smile of his own.  He’d been with some interesting people, fought alongside and against all manner of folk.  But Morgan…  He smiled and shook his head, leaning back to wait just long enough before he’d be able to slip out on his own.  When he left, he went out by going up to his room, and then down the stairs set against the wall. 

Morgan was waiting in the shadow behind the tavern, but it was impossible to miss the smile that curved her lips when she looked up and saw him descending the steps.  She met him at the bottom.  With a little hop, she grabbed his shoulder and yanked him down for a kiss.  His arms came around her and she squeaked as he lifted her up.  Instantly her arms and legs went around him and it felt absolutely perfect.  As he pressed her into the cool stone wall, she wondered how two people of such different sizes could fit together so well.

Kissing along her jaw, Bull found the same scent he’d caught a whiff of earlier, something fiery and bright.  His fingers plucked open the buttons of her high collared shirt, pulling it open and burying his face in her neck, inhaling deeply.  Again, he thought of smoke and blood and battle, all of it layered under flowers and spice.  His growl was deep and wanting, his teeth scraping the skin of her shoulder. 

The sounds of celebration still echoed in the courtyard, people lingering around dying fires, soldiers telling tales of the siege. Other lovers were peeling away, either going back to their rooms or to find their own dark corner.  She felt his breath on her neck, his body pressing hers into the stone.  Trapped, but safe.  It was the strangest thing.  She craned her neck to the side, silently offering whatever he wanted to take from her.  She felt a tug, and felt a button pop before his mouth closed over the crook of her neck, biting hard enough that she had to clench her jaw shut to stifle the cry.

Keeping her weight pinned against the wall, Bull’s hand came between them, tugging at the laces of her breeches.  Morgan tried to shift to make it easier.  “I could wear a dress next time?” she offered, slightly breathless as he continued to worry at her neck, his sharp bites pushing her limits.  But each time she whimpered, he slowed, dragging his tongue over reddening skin, soothing just enough to bite again.

When he was able to slide a hand into her smalls, he pulled back, grinning. “So you want me to just push up your skirts and fuck you against the wall?” he rumbled, teasing a finger through her wetness before pressing inside.  Morgan sucked in a breath, body arching upwards.  “Or maybe you could wear one of those fancy gowns the nobles keep giving you.  I could pull you into a corner and tear all that pretty silk to pieces… just to get to what’s underneath…”  He felt her tightened around his finger, her fingers curling and nails digging in.

His chuckle was dark and sharp before his mouth sealed over hers, swallowing her cry as he started to work a second finger inside.  He could feel her squirming, arching to press into him, the legs around his waist trying to pull him closer.  Curling his fingers inside her, she had to muffle another cry, his thumb starting to grind into her clit.  “You want me to fuck you here, Inquisitor?  Right out in the open?”  Again, her inner walls clenched around him, and she whimpered.  Bull pulled back, grinning wickedly.  “I can do that.  But you have to ask.”  She made a quiet, frustrated sound.  “No.  _Beg_ me.  Beg me to fuck you behind a tavern full of people drinking to your victory.”

Sweet _Maker_ , his fucking _voice_!  The shudder ran down her spine, tightening her limbs around him and making her cunt clench.  The logical part of her mind was in a panic, demanding that she move, that if she had to do this that she do it literally _anywhere else_!  But the louder voice was just screaming _yes, yes, yes_!  She thought about ordering him, _demanding_ what she wanted.  But he wanted her to beg.  Arching her chest against his, she pressed her hips down into his hand.

“Please, Bull,” she whispered, leaning in to nibble his ear, feeling him shudder this time, a groan cracking in the back of his throat.  “Please please _please_.”  As badly as she wanted him was still hard to get the words out.  A third finger started to press into her, both encouraging and maddening.  “Fuck!  Please, Bull!”

“Please _what_?” he rumbled.  “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to stop.”  That was a lie.  Even if she didn’t beg he would still fuck her like she wanted, but he wanted to push, to hear her _say_ it.

Her growl of frustration turned to a whimper, her body tightening again.  “I need—fuck!  Sweet Maker, Bull, if you don’t fuck me right now—” 

Bull dropped her, keeping an arm around her to make sure she caught her feet.  Going down on one knee, he yanked her breeches and smalls down past her hips to mid-thigh.  He pulled off just one boot, and Morgan scrambled to get the leg free of her clothing.  With her breeches and smalls hanging from just one leg, Bull grabbed her up again, jolting her as he pressed her back into the stone.  She heard the click of his buckle, and then felt the heat of his cock pressing into her.  He didn’t go slowly this time, yanking her down in the same moment he thrust upwards.   

Despite the continued sounds of revelry, Morgan clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle a cry.  The sharp, sudden stretch was so intense she half wanted to squirm away.  The other half was relishing in the heat and hardness of him inside her, and the slick drag as he began to move.  Bull grabbed her wrist, pinning it to the wall beside her head.  “No.  I want to hear you.”  He closed his hand over hers, dousing the Anchor’s glow.  She realized that it was the only thing that would identify her to some passer-by.  The untrimmed shrubs and vines behind the tavern were a partial shield, and the only obvious thing would be Bull fucking someone against the wall.

Even knowing that, she still bit her lip, trying to swallow the cries that each rough thrust wrung from her.  To his credit, Bull ruined no more buttons as he opened her shirt and stay, sliding a warm hand in to cup her breast.  His touch soft for a moment before he caught her nipple between his fingers and twisted.  The yelp finally got out, high and sharp, making Bull growl his approval.  He loved the way she grabbed at him, pulling him close even as he caused her pain, getting her so tangled up in just _feeling_ , that she didn’t have to think about anything else.

Once more, he buried his head in her neck, breathing in her scent before sucking a new dark mark to the pale flesh.  Her cried stuttered, trailing out into a whine as his teeth pinched, leaving a ring of red indentations around the mark.  As he crowded into her, she knew that his skin was in reach, right there for her to bite, but her breath was coming too hard and fast for her to focus.

Her head dropped back against the stone, and she realized that she had stopped tried to muffle her cries, a new one driven from her with each thrust.  There was nothing for her to do but ride it out, lost in cresting waves of pleasure and sharp heat.  She was so lost that she didn’t even realize that her short nails had dug hard into Bull’s shoulders, actually drawing blood.  His muscles tensed under the touch, a shiver going through him.  He bit her again, just to hear her strangled cry, forced out as she tried to draw in a shaking breath.

“Oh, for…  Come on, you two need to move alo—oh sweet _Maker_!”  Morgan had spent enough time around the training ring to recognize Cullen’s ‘commander’ voice.  It was usually used on stubborn recruits, or when civilians needed to be cleared out of an area.  He clearly had thought they were a just a couple necking in the shadows, but instead found Bull cock-deep in… well, Cullen couldn’t tell _who_ it was. 

Bull remained perfectly still, shoulders hunched over to keep Morgan shielded from view.  His grip on her remained, and she was very aware of his cock twitching inside her.  She covered her mouth with a hand, balling the Marked one into a fist to keep the light from showing.  Though Bull’s chest was heaving, he turned his head and gave a casual nod in the ex-templar’s direction.  “Evening, Cullen.”  The other man’s face was crimson, even in the evening shadows.

“Eveni—what are you doing?!” Cullen spluttered.  He sounded so mortified that Morgan had to muffle a giggle into her hand.

“I’d think that’d be kinda obvious,” Bull said, and again, Morgan choked on a laugh.  “Now, if I’d had time to clear it beforehand with the lady, I’d ask you to join us, but—”

“Blessed—no.  No.”  Morgan would have given all the gold in the Inquisitions coffers to see Cullen’s face just then, but then the meaning of Bull’s words settled in on her, and she trembled.  The thought of Cullen, with all his manners and chivalry, watching her get pinned down and _used_ by the Iron Bull…  She trembled again, body clenching around Bull’s cock, enough that his grip on her thighs tightened.  “Just… just take it some-somewhere else,” Cullen stuttered, and she wondered what _he_ would look like pushed over a desk with his ass in the air.

“Will do,” Bull said.  There was some muttered reply that Morgan couldn’t hear, and then the quick retreat of armored boots on the dirt.  Slowly, she looked up at Bull.  He was grinning down at her in way that made her want to squirm.  He leaned down, as low as his height would let him, putting his mouth close to her ear. 

“You _liked_ that,” he rumbled, grinding his hips against hers.  While her body clenched and shivered, Morgan found herself shaking her head.  Bull laughed, a dark, smug sort of chuckle.  “You like the idea of the Commander seeing you like this, clothes torn off, cunt dripping for me?”  He started to punctuate his words with slow, hard thrusts, watching her body jerk in his arms.  “Or maybe you want him to fuck you, while I sit back and watch?  Or the two of us together?”

Another shudder made her arch in his arms, toes curling and nails digging into his shoulders again.  Bull laughed, a sound that made her feel obscene, and she whimpered. Bull’s simple words painted hugely vivid images in her mind, and she glared up at him accusingly.  He only laughed again, his thrusts losing any of their gentleness, sensation riding the knife edge between pain and pleasure.

“Maybe you won’t get to play at all, and I’ll just tie you up to watch while I fuck the Commander…” 

Each new word was a sharp lance to the already complicated knot of heat.  Bull knew that his words were getting under her skin, and he twisted like a knife in her gut.  His hand slipped between them, feeling her jerk at the sudden rough touch to her clit.  She was very, _very_ wet, his thrusts smooth and easy, despite the rhythmic clenching starting inside her.  As he plucked her clit, Morgan jerked, sensation rocking through her.  Her body seemed to have stopped listening to her, practically writhing in Bull’s arms, bucking and grinding against him.  She didn’t know if she wanted to run from the pleasure bearing down on her or rush to meet it.

Bull didn’t give her a choice, playing her body like a damn instrument, wringing louder and louder cries from her.  Then it all shattered apart, and she clung desperately to Bull’s shoulders as orgasm crackled through her.  He didn’t slow down, fucking her through it and still going when she whimpered with over sensitivity.  Then she leaned in and bit him, the most retaliation she could manage, her small jaw catching the edge of his shoulder.  The pain was enough to push him over the edge, his thrusts losing all sense of rhythm, pounding into her before he bit down _hard_ on her shoulder.  He tasted blood and cursed himself, but Morgan was kissing his shoulder, locking her shaking legs around his hips as he finally went still.

Both of them were breathing hard, chests heaving as Bull slowly sank to his knees, making sure not to scrape Morgan’s back over the stone.  He slid out of her, cum leaking down her thighs.  There was a soft knock as Bull leaned forward to rest his head on the stone.  “You…”  He had to take a few more breaths before he was ready to speak.  “You’re wearing something,” he murmured, lifting a hand to brush her neck, eyes lingering on the slowly bleeding bite on her shoulder.  “It smelled…”  She winced and sucked in a breath when his finger probed the edge of the bite.  “Shit…  I’m sorry, Boss.  I didn’t mean… shit.”

The actual worry on his face was so touching and earnest that she couldn’t help but smile. Managing to get her shaking legs and weak knees under her, she leaned up and kissed him, slow and deep.  “Thank you,” she murmured.  Then, smiling shyly, “I don’t… I actually kind of like it. Something about you marking me…”  She trailed off, cheeks coloring.  Shaking her head, she grinned and looked back up.  “So you liked the perfume, huh?”   

“It’s all… fiery, smoky and…”  He made a vague growling noise, and Morgan laughed softly.

“Noted.”  She pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket.  She cleaned herself gently, the grass tickling her legs.  Handing over the cloth to Bull, she remained seated, her legs still tingling and weak.  “Okay, I was planning to get drunk and then raid the kitchens, but this was a _much_ better idea,” she said breathlessly.

“I mean, we can still do all that,” Bull said.  “I’m kinda curious what kind of drunk you are.”

Starting to work her leg back into her smalls and breeches, Morgan winced, but smiled.  “Cuddly.  And I can’t stop talking.”  The shadows kept her face mostly hidden, but Bull saw a new blush creeping in.  “And occasionally, well…”  She blushed _more_.  “Horny.”

Bull’s smile was oddly soft.  “See, that’s not fair.  I’d have to escort you to bed with you crawling all over me.”  The fact that he wouldn’t act on her inebriated advances settled over her slowly, eyes widening slightly with understanding.  In the past, if she was going to drink enough that she couldn’t walk straight, she had locked herself in her own home.  Men—and some women—were far too willing to take advantage of an amorous, drunk dwarf.  Bull had as much said that if she were drunk, he’d just be putting her to bed. 

She blinked, and then ducked her head, focusing on getting back into her pants before she said something stupid and mushy.  Bull was already on his feet when she stood.  It was easier to maintain a distance when people had flaws, things she didn’t like that would keep attachment to a minimum.  But Bull… he just kept surprising her.  He could stand to give lessons to some of the more foolish suitors Morgan had had in the past.  Despite herself, a giggle bubbled up in her throat, comparing previous encounters to what she now had access to. 

As she was buckling her belt with her back to him, she felt a sharp swat on her behind, spinning around and glaring.  But the expression melted from her eyes and she punched him playfully in the arm.  Then she yanked him down for another kiss, parting with a bite to his bottom lip.  “Goodnight, Bull.”

The qunari groaned.  “You’re so _mean_ , Boss,” he muttered.

Morgan just smiled at him over her shoulder.  “You love it,” she teased, waving as she started wandering back towards the castle.  Bull watched her go, eyes drawn down her back to the sway of her hips.  But then they came back up again, watching the set of her shoulders and the relaxed way her arms moved at her sides.  He felt a smile tugging at him, and it seemed like more than just a change in the shape of his mouth.  Not only did he like _looking_ at her, he liked looking at _her_.  Seeing her meant that good things were coming, whether it was a fuck in a dark corner, or a fight that made his blood sing.  It was equally likely to be good food and drink and stories that would make Cassandra blush.

When the realization hit him, he realized that it had been a long time coming, a slow thing built by Morgan’s every action and word.  Before, he could have distanced himself, made himself and the Chargers _separate_ from the Inquisition if necessary.  If he had to, he could leave to protect them.  But now… Now he _wanted_ to follow.  He wanted to see this shit-show through to the end, because Morgan was worth following.  She was a good leader, for all her shortcomings, and trusting another person to lead him like that…  It had been a long time.  He shook his head.  Crazy shit happened at the end of the world.

A half-eaten apple hit him in the head, making him jerk up.  Sera leaned out her window, hair a mess and scowling.  “Not under my frigging window, yeah?” she shouted down, sticking out her tongue and presenting him with her middle finger. 

Bull couldn’t help the laughter.  “Sorry, Sera!” he called back, but the elf had already withdrawn back into her room, tossing an unintelligible curse out over her shoulder.

 

000

 

Despite falling blissfully into bed with a smile on her face, Morgan’s sleep was far from restful. 

_She was in the Fade again, stripped naked and running.  Instead of red lyrium, ice grew from the landscape, shards of it poking up from the ground and cutting her feet, forcing her to leave a red trail in her wake.  Her body trembled at each step, the cold seeping in the same way it had after Haven, after all those people had died._

_Something was after her.  It wasn’t the Nightmare.  Something else.  It was similar, dancing on the edges of her mind, sneaking in through cracks.  There was no name for it, only the fear and the desperate need to get away.  So cold…  Even as she ran on solid, sharp ground, she felt as if she were drowning, being pulled down into icy depths._

_Familiar… she had been here before.  Never with these images, never with any images at all.  She_ knew _this feeling, had known it since she was very small.  And now her dreams had given it form, given it a way to chase her, to come after the happiness she was so terrified to lose._

_In the dream, she screamed…_

And when she came awake in bed, the sheets were as cold as ice.  She jerked, scrambling from her bed and half falling onto the cold stone floor.  Her heart was pounding, and her skin was pebbled with gooseflesh.  But not with fear.  Deep, drowning despair tugged at her, throwing her down to her darkest places.  Then a worried Hinter nudged her shoulder, tugging at the healing bite from Bull, and it all snapped away, and she felt the cold starting to ebb from her hands.  Breath came back in deep lungfulls and she sagged back on her knees, Hinter running around her in circles, concerned and whining.  Behind her, dark spots of water formed where ice had clung to the sheets and blankets.  As she hurried to dress, Morgan never saw.

It was early enough that only the servants were awake, something Morgan found herself glad for.  Josephine had assured her that with their victory at Adamant, more and more nobility would pledge their support to the Inquisition.  That meant speaking with nobles that looked down on her, and thought her to be a pawn they could use in their ‘Great Game’.  At least that was just the Orlesians.  Fereldens were easier, especially when Hinter was with her.  Morgan stole an abandoned plate of bacon from a table and split the contents between the dog and herself as she wandered to the Undercroft.

Hinter was still watching her closely, only taking the bacon that was offered and not begging for more.  His person _smelled_ different, and she’d been so sad, crying in her sleep.  He huffed as she kept walking, seemingly unaware of his need to stop and wash her face until the sadness went away.  But the bacon helped.  A little.

At such an early hour, Morgan had expected to find the smithy empty, but a small auburn head was bowed over a work bench, the owner muttering something under their breath.  Hinter, who had spent much of his time in the Undercroft while Morgan had been gone, barked an echoing greeting.  There was a muffled curse, and Dagna’s head came up, wearing a pair of magnifying spectacles and her face smeared with dirt.  She saw Hinter before the other dwarf, her dirty face lighting up.  She dropped whatever had been in her hands with a clatter, coming out from around the dwarf sized bench.

“Hey, Buddy!”   She didn’t have to crouch to get a thorough tongue washing, and ruffled Hinter’s ears fondly.  Then Dagna saw Morgan, still holding the plate.  Bright green eyes fell on the strips of bacon, and she spun around to look at the gaping open mouth of the cave, blinking at the sunlight.  “It’s morning!” she cried, spinning back.

Morgan blinked.  “Yes?”

Recognition passed over Dagna’s face.  “Oh!  Inquisitor!”  She came even closer, bouncing on her heels.  “You were _there_!  I have to know what it was like; the smells, the colors, the _magic_!”  She practically looked ready to start jumping up and down, eyes bright with such earnest excitement that it was hard to be upset at her bringing up a painful memory.  Something of that pain must have crossed her face, because Dagna calmed slightly.  “I’m sorry… was that insensitive?  I heard there was a fear demon…”

But Morgan was well aware of the wonder the other dwarf had for all things magic.  She was so honestly curious, so determined to learn everything she could.  And she looked at it in ways that no one else ever did.  Morgan wouldn’t begrudge her a few questions.  “It’s alright.  If it hadn’t been for the demon, it might have actually been interesting.”  The two dwarves had had brief conversation when the Archanist had first arrived, both of them talking about their interest in magic.

“See!  You understand,” Dagna said happily.  “We dwarves don’t dream, so I can’t even begin to imagine what _that’s_ like, let alone the Fade itself!”

Biting her lip, Morgan tried to come up with words that would translate to another dwarf, to maybe give them an idea of what dreams were.  They’d been hard enough for her own mind to grasp when she first started having them.  “Well, one does.”  She lifted her left hand and wiggled the fingers.  “Since I got this.  Dreams are like… when  you remember things, but you’re just watching instead of calling the memories up?  And sometimes its things that have never happened, or are completely impossible.  Like Cullen having two heads or nugs having a tea party.”

The Archanist giggled.  “Really?  That sounds amazing!”  Then she paused.  “But there are bad things, too?”

Morgan nodded.  “Yeah, like having to make a speech in front of a crowd of people but realizing you’re naked.”

“Ooh, that’s awful!”  But Dagna was still smiling, clapping her hands and obviously giddy with excitement.  Then a serious thought seemed to occur to her.  “Your people probably cleaned you up after your fall… there’s probably not much left… I wonder if I could get a sample…”

Morgan blinked, slightly startled.  “A sample?”

“Ooh, that sounded sinister…”  Dagna bit her lip, probably trying to think of a better way to phrase what she wanted.  “Um, I want to cut a piece off of you and do things to it… Ooh, that wasn’t any better, was it?”  She blushed then, her nose scrunching up in a way that probably drove hearts wild.  If she ever looked up from her work long enough to notice, anyways.

“Well, we already have mages at Adamant investigating how I opened a Rift _into_ the Fade,” Morgan said.  “I can make sure that everything they bring back gets sent your way.”  Dagna squealed, clapping her hands again. 

“This so exci—no, that’s not a good enough word!”  She seemed cast about in her mind for the right turn of phrase.  “This is better than spring coming early!  This is a wonder!  Thank you, Inquisitor.  Wait, Morgan.  You wanted me to call you Morgan.  Inquisitor Morgan.  Oh, this is amazing!”  She wandered back to her station, leaving Morgan watching after her with a bemused smile on her face.

With the other smiths starting to arrive, Morgan drifted over to the small desk that she had set up for herself.  It was full of papers and tools, with a small space cleared in the middle for fresh inventory reports.  Not intending to read them all, Morgan picked up the paper on top, breaking the seal without ceremony to read the inside.  As she did, a smile spread across her face.  A noble from the southern part of Orlais had sent a gift of refined dawnstone and bloodstone, as well as a smaller amount of silverite. 

The moment she saw _‘dawnstone’_ written in flowing Orlesian script, Morgan thought back to the conversation she’d overheard between Bull and Blackwall, when they’d been waiting in line to put in a request for the quarter master.  Some quick organizing cleared enough space for parchment and charcoal, and Morgan started an idea she’d had for a while to paper.  While she might not have the time to forge the massive greatsword herself, she could at least get the particulars set out.  She got so engrossed in her drawing that she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until they were right behind her.

“Hey, Hooks!”  Sera was grinning widely when Morgan turned, mischief glittering in her eyes.

Morgan smiled, setting down her charcoal nub and brushing her hands on her breeches.  “Hullo, Sera.  Who’d you get with a prank this early?”  Despite the flies it attracted and the messy clean-up, the custard down the stairs had been hilarious.

Pulling up a stool, the elf shook her head, still grinning.  “No pranks.  Well, not yet.  There’s a ponce from Antiva coming, so maybe something.  Later.  Dunno yet.”  Sitting down she kicked her feet back and forth, unable to keep still even when sitting.  Morgan knew how that felt.  “So, you have a good time last night?  You don’t seem hung over.”

Morgan shrugged her shoulders, renewing the sharp ache of the bite.  “Didn’t get a chance.  And I only started having fun _after_ I left Josie with the Ban and his sons.”  She shook her head and made a face.  “He kept acting surprised at how many ‘normal-sized’ tables and chairs there were.  Didn’t seem to notice the qunari-sized stuff though.”

“Yeah, Chargers would definitely be better company,” Sera said, wrinkling her nose. 

Morgan would have narrowed her eyes, but kept the easy smile going.  The younger woman was steering the conversation.  “The only thing they complain about is Bull’s puns, mostly,” she said with a shrug.  “And they’re much prettier to look at.”

“Krem’s pretty for a boy,” Sera admitted.

“Let me guess,” Morgan said.  “Dalish is ‘too elfy’?”

Sera shrugged.  “She’s nowhere near as bad as Solas.  She likes her old elfy gods plenty, but she doesn’t complain and moan and go on and on about the past.”  She shook of the slight smile, replacing it with a frown.  “Mage, though.”  Then she blinked, sitting up straight.  “Hey, you’re doing the Carty thing again!”

Morgan gave her best impression of confusion, eyebrows furrowing and head tilting slightly.  “Cart—oh!  Carta.  How am I being sneaky?”

“Distracting me!” Sera said accusingly.  “I have a secret you wanna hear!”

Considering that Sera had almost as many eyes and ears in her network as Leliana, Morgan found herself interested despite her suspicion.  “I’m listening.”

Sera leaned in, grinning again, and Morgan turned her ear towards the other girl.  “I don’t like people fucking under my window when I’m trying to get some frigging sleep!” Sera hissed sharply.  Morgan jerked away, a traitorous blush creeping up her cheeks.  Sera looked like she was trying not to punch a fist into the air.  “Yes!  I _knew_ it was you!”  A few heads turned.

“Sera, please, don’t—!”

The other rogue cut her off with a shake of her head.  “I’m not telling nobody nuthin’!” she giggled.  “It’s not their business who you go to bed with.”  She smirked.  “Try an actual bed, next time, yeah?  Don’t need to think about Bull like that!”  She made a face, sticking out her tongue.

Dragging a hand over her face, Morgan sighed with relief.  “Sorry.  Didn’t really think about it.”  She smiled sheepishly.

“So… can I ask a question?”

“I thought you didn’t want to think about Bull like that?”

“No!  Not _details_!”  Sera shuddered in disgust. 

Morgan laughed.  “Okay.  Go ahead, I guess.”

“So are you two…  Are you together _together_?  Or just knocking boots for fun?” 

“Fun,” Morgan said immediately, shoving the idea of an actual romantic relationship with Bull straight to the back of her mind.  “Definitely just fun.  Neither of us really do the whole… relationship thing.”

“What?  So no cuddling after?”

The idea that cuddling after sex was romantic made Morgan intensely uncomfortable, but again, she just shoved the feeling away.  “Nah, I like cuddling,” she said.  “Most people don’t like it from me though.  I have cronically cold toes!”  She waggled her feet in Sera’s direction, and the elf cackled.

“Hah!  Bull jumping out of bed if you put your icy lil’ toes on his arse!”  She laughed loud enough that people started looking over, and Morgan had to bury her face in her hands as she tried to stifle her own snorting giggles.

Eventually, they got themselves back under control.  “Thanks Sera.  For keeping this between us, I mean.”

“Psh, I don’t tell secrets that aren’t mine,” the elf sniffed.  Morgan’s swell of gratitude was lost in a loud explosion and billow of red smoke from Dagna’s station.  Some of the smiths swore loudly, and some grumbled and rolled their eyes, as if such things had become common place.

 

000

 

Sera skipped out easily, vanishing through the Hall towards the courtyard.  Morgan had a much harder time.  Everyone still wanted to congratulate her or shake her hand.  As anxiety began to tighten her chest, someone clapped her on the shoulder, jolting Bull’s bite.  The sharp, stinging pain was instantly grounding, and she sucked in a calming breath.  It was a whole new use for pain, and she found that she liked the way it felt.  The thought that such things were strange wasn’t one she bothered to entertain.

Soon Morgan was out in the open air, Hinter at her side.  She hurried down the steps and towards the stables, where a trainer was working a yearling through its paces.  Morgan had forbidden training of animals by pain, and while some of the old masters had accused her of being soft, the new methods were producing the same results.  Morgan would admit to a great deal of smug satisfaction at having proved them wrong.  The sun was nearly always bright in the mountains, and with the magically warm air of the castle, she felt a bit like a cat, leaning against the fence in the sun, heat crawling across her back.

“He loves you.”

Despite being able not to jump out of her skin when Cole appeared at her elbow, the sudden words were enough to start a bubble of panic.  Then Cole knelt and offered his hand to Hinter.  The big animal sat and put his paw over the spirit-boy’s hand, then lunged in to lick his face.  Morgan smiled.  “Hullo, Cole.”  He didn’t look up, eyes lingering on the dog. 

“Cold, so hungry, lonely, lonely, lonely.  No one to lay against, no smiles or praise.  Warm fire, people that don’t shout or throw things at me.  Food!  Small, gentle hands, her face to mine.  Home.  I will protect my home.”  He looked up.  “You saved him.  He loves you.” 

The panic died instantly, and Morgan felt warmth washing over her.  “I didn’t know you could understand animals, too,” she said, crouching down as well.  “I’m kind of envious.”

“Dogs are different,” he said.  “They always want to help.”  He was scratching Hinter under the collar and the big dog was leaning heavily into his hands.  Then he looked over at her, as if noticing her for the first time.  “You’re… brighter.  Shimmering, shattered stone, light where none has ever been…”  He reached out, touching her hand.  “Magic.  Like Cole… me… how he was before he died…”

Almost instantly, Morgan rolled her eyes.  “The Anchor is magic, not me.”

“A key, so much power stone crumbles.  Numbness becomes searing sight.  Dreams.” 

“I’ve been dreaming since I got the Mark, Cole,” Morgan said, trying to reassure the worry on his young face.  “It… reacts to magic.  It protects me.”  She stared down at her left hand, the green light faint in the bright sunshine.  “Does being a dwarf that dreams make me feel like a mage?”  She couldn’t help her own curiosity.

“You open and close the Veil like curtains, a wave of your hand and demons fall… so many nightmares…”  He reached out, touching her arm briefly.  “I can’t take it away.  Your dreams scare you, but I can’t make them stop.  The stone’s broken.  You can’t stop dreaming.”

It took the words being said out loud by another for Morgan to accept them.  When had she gotten so used to the Anchor that she expected to have it forever?  Again, she looked down at it, wondering when it had stopped being some _thing_ attached to her, and become a part of how she lived and fought and breathed.  It somehow seemed as much her as the tattoos on her fingers.  A smile curved her lips, and she turned the warm expression in Cole’s worried direction.

“There are good dreams, too, Cole,” she said.  “And even if there weren’t, there are so many good people around me that being awake makes it better.”

“The Iron Bull makes you happy,” Cole said.

“Yes, he’s one of—”

“He hurts you, but you like it…”  He sounded less worried and more confused, and Morgan’s cheeks went scarlet.  She opened and closed her mouth soundlessly a few times, trying to find a quick way out of the conversation.  “Oh.  If you ache, your mind can’t catch you.  Your father’s lies can’t reach you if something real hurts.”  He smiled.  “I’m glad.”

Morgan blinked.  “That… actually makes sense.”  Physical pain made it easier to remember that the sadness her mind produced wasn’t real.  It kept her grounded in the real world and out of her own head.  She had never thought of that being the reason she liked pain, but it was certainly healthier than cutting herself.  It wasn’t _just_ the pain, though.  Bull made her feel _good_ , sometimes even _beautiful_.  She smiled, and wondered if Cole understood what a hug was, and if he would be uncomfortable if she gave him one.  “Cole… If Madame Vivienne ever bothers you, you can tell me, alright?  You’re helping people here.”

Something darkened his face, and he straightened, turning away.  “If I’m bound, I can’t help people.  If Corypheus binds me…”

“Cole, we have had this conversation.”

Morgan’s head snapped up; she hadn’t even heard Solas approaching.  Again, she got that strange uneasy feeling from him.  Had he always been this strange?   “What’s going on, Solas?”

He must have seen something of the genuine concern in her face as she looked between him and the spirit-boy, because his face relaxed, losing some of its edge.  “In an effort to avoid the fate of the Warden mages, Cole wishes me to bind him.”

Morgan’s eyes widened and her brows instantly came together.  “If I remember any of our talks, even a little, that’s blood magic.  And the spirit often gets… warped.”

“But you _like_ demons!” Cole cried, clearly ready to have the conversation again.

Solas heaved a sigh.  “Yes, I enjoy the company of spirits, which is why I do _not_ abuse them with bindings.”

“It isn’t abuse if I _ask_!”  He sounded so desperate and scared that Morgan’s chest tightened with anxiety on his behalf. 

Solas seemed to be getting frustrated.  “ _Not_ always true!”  He passed a hand over his face.  “And I also do not practice blood magic, which renders this entire conversation academic!”

Cole turned imploringly to Morgan.  “If he won’t do the ritual to bind me, someone else could.  Would!”  His head dropped, shoulders hunching.  “I… I wouldn’t be me anymore.  Walls around what I want.  Blocking, bleeding, making me a monster!”

“Cole… if Solas binds you, it could change you,” Morgan said gently.  Information and worry spun in her head, knotting with questions.  “Couldn’t… couldn’t you lose the part of you that makes you who you are?”

Cole’s frustration was so pure as to be nearly childlike.  “Helping people is what I do!  I help the hurting.  That is all I do!  Am!”

“And if the binding razes your mind?” Solas countered.

For a moment, Cole looked between the mage and the dwarf, finally settling on Morgan.  “You like helping, too.  _You_ wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people!”

“Cole, there… there _has_ to be some middle ground between ‘do nothing’ and bind you with blood magic!”

Solas smiled at her, but Morgan couldn’t decide if it was real or not.  At the very least, he seemed to truly care for Cole’s wellbeing.  “Indeed.  I had recalled stories of amulets used by Rivani seers.  They use them to protect spirits they summon from being bound by rival mages.  A spirit, wearing such an Amulet of the Unbound, was immune to blood magic and binding.  It should protect Cole as well.”

Squaring her shoulders, Morgan nodded.  “I’ll ask Josephine and Leliana to start looking right away.”  She glanced between the two, biting her lip.  “Cole, I won’t let anyone hurt you.  Or make you hurt anyone else.”

“Good.”  And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the direction I'm going with Morgan and the Anchor should be pretty obvious, but i'm not gonna say it out loud just yet. Also laying foundations for relationships and things.


	19. When the Past Has Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More development! Also fluff and angst.

When the Past Has Teeth:

 

The hall had gone silent, save for servants cleaning up the remains of the evening meal.  Morgan stood before the door, hands at her sides and eyes lingering on the handle.  The rotunda where Solas spent most of his time was just beyond, and he was waiting for her.  She had wanted to put it off, and had actually considered bringing Erimond up from the cells a few days early, just so she would have an excuse not to speak to the mage.

The previous days, she’d been able to busy herself with getting plans going for finding an Amulet of the Unbound.  Helping Cole was all she had to focus on, and she’d been able to ignore the dreams, and waking to find frost crawling up her left arm, or the candles blazing so intensely that they melted the wax in a matter of seconds.  She had heard about such things, half overheard conversations between young people, shortly before they started going to the mage tower.  But it was all so impossible… 

Beside her, Hinter whined, feeling her discomfort and nuzzling his head under her hand.  She looked down.  He wasn’t afraid.  Even if she started throwing flames and lightning, she somehow knew that the dog would never change.  He probably would have tried to go into the Fade with her.  She crouched and hugged him tightly.  She knew that he didn’t much like being grabbed, but he didn’t complain that she took her comfort differently.  He licked her cheek as she pulled away, straightening up and turning back to the door.

Solas was waiting at his desk, a teapot and two cups waiting on a tray.  Morgan knew that Solas didn’t care for tea, and still wasn’t sure why he drank it, but she thanked him when he poured her some.  Sitting across from him, Morgan felt more uncomfortable than she had a in a long time.  All the strangeness she’d felt from him in the Fade came roaring back, and she shifted uneasily in her seat.  Hinter sighed and laid his head across her lap.  His weight was comforting, and she was able to go still.  She took a long breath, and then a sip of tea. 

Solas didn’t say a word, just watching her.  What he was feeling from her went beyond impossible.  There was no way such a person should exist.  She was a Child of the Stone, mind cut off and invisible to the Fade.  And yet… she was alight with magic, coursing through her as surely as her blood.  The Anchor had made her strange from the beginning; a power that should never have been hers glowing so brightly that it altered her.  And since Adamant, since he had poured his power into her…

He cursed himself.  He was caring too much, and had made a mistake.  All of this would end, and yet…  She _had_ to succeed.  There was no other option now.  He hadn’t wanted to like her.  She was a dwarf, and they usually made themselves easy to dislike.  Selfish and blind to anything but what they could see and smell and touch.  Uninterested in learning, in knowing that there was more to the world.  But Morgan… her eyes lit up when he spoke of magic and spirits, and she had shown true compassion and willingness to help the spirit in Crestwood.  And she made no qualms about showing how greatly she wanted to help Cole.  He had wanted to be annoyed with her constant questions, but her genuine thirst for knowledge—and her joy at learning something new—made it impossible.

She was unlike any creature that he had ever met, and now he had let himself get really involved.  There was no turning back.  His plans would remain unchanged, but this was not something he could brush aside.  And, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, part of him wanted to learn, to see if maybe there was some truth to the theories that Dwarves had once had a connection to the Fade.  He waited until she had set down her cup. 

“Are you alright?”  She seemed wary of him, closed off.  But she smiled softly, letting out a heavy breath.

“No.  I haven’t slept properly since we got back to Skyhold.”

“I know.”  He had seen her, the Mark a beacon in the Fade, scaring off all but the most determined and curious spirits.  He had entered her dreams properly as well, testing her.  They had walked Haven, her mind painting a clear, distinct picture of the village before the fight, before its destruction. 

“A few refugee children have shown signs of magic recently,” Morgan said.  “I heard them talking, and they’ve started studying in the mage tower now.  My dreams…”  Terror started to pound in her veins, chest tight.  “I’ve nearly set my rooms on fire _twice_ now.  And three times I’ve woken with ice on my sheets and body.”  She looked down at Hinter, and he whined softly.  “I keep scaring him.”  Her voice dropped, her whisper nearly silent.  “Maker, I’m so fucking scared.”

Solas was well aware that she didn’t trust him, not the way she trusted the Bull or Varric.  For her to make such an admission to him took a great deal of strength, and also fear.  Each word out of her mouth was an impossibility, and yet…  “Those are indeed signs of a magical awakening,” he finally said.

“But that’s not _possible_ ,” Morgan said, looking up.  “I’m a _dwarf_!”

“You dream, do you not?  I have seen you in the Fade.  That is also considered impossible.”

“I can accept that,” Morgan said, struggling not to shout.  “But _magic_?!”

“How is that any stranger than dreaming?” Solas said, ignoring his own screaming denial.  “Both should be impossible for you, and yet they are happening all the same.”

“So… So I’m what?  A fucking _mage_ now?”

Solas laid his hands out on the desk, palms up and open.  “I cannot say anything for certain.  I have seen many things, but this… this is unlike any of them.  There are many theories as to _why_ dwarves are cut off from the Fade, and some mages had claimed that their minds are cut off in the same way a Tranquil mage’s is.  Those same people theorize that the same method that reverses the Rite of Tranquility—”

“Which is _horrific_ ,” Morgan muttered under her breath.  Solas couldn’t help but smile at the interruption.  She hadn’t even made _Alexius_ tranquil.  He also suspected that she would rather execute Erimond, instead of having him branded.

“They believe that the reversal of the rite, if performed on a dwarf, could open them up to the Fade.”

“I don’t… I don’t want this,” Morgan said, shoulders sagging.  Her voice took on a desperate quality, higher and sharper than usual.  “I just want to kill Corypheus.  I don’t… I don’t _want_ to be magic.”

“You did not wish to be Inquisitor, either,” Solas said.

“That wasn’t for _me_ ,” Morgan said stubbornly.  “That was for everyone else.  I’m being what _they_ need.”

“And who is to say that they do not need this?”  He pointed to the Mark, and she curled her fingers around it, drawing it back to her chest.  “Who is to say they do not need you exactly as you are?  You are strange and different, yes, but you are the _only_ one that can do this.”  He appeared to deflate, and his next smile actually reached his eyes.  “You have surprised me since the beginning, Morgan Cadash.  I expect you will do so again many times before this is over.”

Morgan felt a smile pulling at her own cheeks, and she shook her head.  “What do I _do_ , Solas?” she sighed, sinking back into the chair.  “Do I go to the mage tower and start taking lessons?”

When he laughed, Morgan gave him a mock glare.  “No.  As unique as this is, I don’t think you should be running around waving it about.  There are still plenty who fear mages.”

“Biggots.”

Another laugh, and she was almost sure that it was genuine.  “Yes, some,” he agreed.  “But you are doing enough to make such people uncomfortable.”  He took a breath, wondering why he was bothering.  Part of him still wanted to just step back, watching everything fall on its own.  But no.  There was a plan to be followed.  The Inquisition had to succeed, and so _Morgan_ had to succeed.  “I will teach you.  Lessons on avoiding possession, controlling things.  If you are not a mage, it will simply expand your knowledge.”  He let the other side of things hang in the air, and Morgan had to suppress a shudder.  It was going to be a long night.

 

000

 

_“You want me to set myself on fire?”_

Morgan was all for learning new things, and making herself more deadly.  It also gave her more excuses to be seen pouring over books that Solas had given her.  But being a Tempest was, by far, one of the strangest fighting styles she had ever heard of.  Bull drank dragon blood as a Reaver, and Templar’s took lyrium.  But, no, being a Tempest meant setting yourself on fucking _fire_.  Granted there were safeguards, treatments for her clothes and armor to keep the fire there and _only_ there. 

Khim, her teacher, didn’t care about how she used her daggers, but rather how she moved through her foes.  It wasn’t the cutting that mattered, so much as how you got there.  There was a wildness to him, and his voice was somehow unsettling.  Most of her learning went into alchemy, to knowing exactly how to concoct the proper mixtures _without_ blowing herself to pieces.  After turning a glass beaker into so much sand and getting a nasty chemical burn across her forearm, she paid even closer attention.  She wasn’t even allowed to touch her daggers until she had the most rudimentary mixtures memorized.  She was glad for it, since it let her put off dealing with the most recent addition to the Skyhold dungeons.

She hated Erimond enough that she had actually thought about making him Tranquil.  But she decided against that because he wouldn’t suffer.  Not because the Rite of Tranquility was wrong, or too harsh.  Because she despised the former Magister and wanted him to _hurt_.  She wanted him to hurt for each and every life that he had ruined.  For those that died as blood sacrifice, and those that had held the knife, believing the sacrifice necessary.  Those left alive had to continue on with the knowledge of what they had done.  Erimond didn’t deserve to escape.  He deserved to live out the rest of his many years in pain and suffering.  Wanting that for another person terrified Morgan, and she was very, _very_ glad that her mother wasn’t there.

One morning, she found herself wandering near the stables, her boots and Hinter’s paws wet with dew.  On the way there, she’d seen a few people in Warden armor, and had greeted them with smiles.  There wasn’t room for all of them to stay at Skyhold.  Even with their numbers weakened, they were still an army.  And Morgan didn’t want them to die out, the elders succumbing to their _real_ Calling.  With a grumbled sigh, she kicked a stone through the grass, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Everything alright, Cadash?”  The rough Marcher voice had stopped making her jump and flinch, and looking up at Blackwall no longer made anxiety constrict her chest.  He was leaning against the door to the barn, drinking something steaming from a simple mug. 

She paused for a moment, looking at him.  Her uncertainty about him was still there.  When questioned after Crestwood about the Calling, he had said only that he did not fear it.  Morgan hadn’t been there for that, but even written out on paper, it had seemed evasive.  But she _knew_ him, or at least felt she did.  He was a good man, always ready to lend a hand, either to soldiers or laborers.  He never bothered anyone, except if they were bothering someone else first.  Morgan had found herself thinking that he would make a far better father than her own had.

“You want the short or long answer?” Morgan finally sighed.

“Oh, like that is it?”  He shrugged.  “Not many short answers left these days, I suppose.”

Morgan snorted.  “No, not really.”

“Well I have no pressing business, if you’d like to talk.”  There was that kindness again.  He was so gentle with his words, forever concerned with how those around him were doing.

Walking over, Morgan dropped herself down on a bench, Hinter trotting in to lay at her feet.  “No.  I’m not alright,” she said, dragging a hand through her hair.  “There’s a man in the dungeons I’d really like to kill, but I also think he should live and suffer for what he did.”

“Well… you won’t get an argument from me on that,” he said, voice and face darkening for a moment.

“I also can’t find an amulet to help Cole, and Cassandra hasn’t been able to find a single Seeker since the Conclave.  Also, there’s reports of red lyrium and Templars in Emprise du Lion, dragons in the Western Approach and Crestwood, Venatori in the Hissing Wastes, and some nug from the Merchant’s Guild keeps asking Josephine why I’m not married!”  She threw up her hands and Hinter whined, putting his head on her boot.  Shoulders sagging, she reached down to scratch him under the collar. 

“That’s… a lot to, ah, have on your mind…”  He probably hadn’t been expecting her to unload everything at once.

“Sorry, Blackwall,” Morgan sighed.  “But you did ask.”

“That I did,” he agreed.  “I’m assuming you’ve already brought all these concerns to the attention of everyone that could help?”

“Yeah… you just… caught me early in the day.  I usually get to work out the frustration in the training yard.  Hadn’t gotten there yet.”

“I’ve seen you there,” Blackwall said, a smile pulling at his beard.  “The recruits are almost as scared of you as Cassandra.”

Morgan had to laugh.  “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” she said.

“You learning to set yourself on fire probably isn’t helping,” he added.

“Here’s hoping the Venatori and the Red Templars are just as put off,” she snorted, making a face.

“You’ll probably have more luck with the former.”

Thinking about it all made Morgan wonder if dawn was too early to start drinking.  “At least they die normally,” she muttered.  Silence settled then, but not a terribly uncomfortable one.  Blackwall sipped his tea and watched the castle slowly come to life.  It was always those that worked with animals that were first, the kennel master and Dennet.  Hinter bounded away from the barn when the dogs were released, greeting his friends and beginning friendly tussle with a scruffy sheepdog.

Blackwall laughed as he watched, shaking his head.  And Morgan watched him.  As much as the questions burned, she didn’t want them answered any longer.  Not because she feared what they could be, but because she no longer cared.  Whoever he might have been before, Blackwall was part of the Inquisition.  She let her concerns about him slip away.  Solas concerned her more now.  He appeared so easy to read, and never gave any sign that there was anything more to him than what he presented.  But after the Fade, after seeing that part of him, Morgan couldn’t let it go, even if he was helping her.  She couldn’t forget how old he had seemed, and how fierce his usually calm face had become.  It had touched an ancient, primal fear, somewhere deep in the animal part of her mind.  Something told her to fear him now, and it couldn’t be shaken.

“Cole is that… spirit-boy?  The one that people can’t remember?”

Morgan had noticed that people had a hard time remembering Cole.  She had asked him not to touch her own memories, as the idea of something like that happening _again_ after the Nightmare was far too painful.  He seemed to understand, and to have listened.  She had also asked him to avoid making other people forget him, but that was sort of like asking a cat not to chase mice.  “Yes.  He doesn’t seem to make everyone forget him though.  All the dogs love him.”

“He has that hat, right?  Brim out to here?”  He held out his hands to either side of his head in demonstration.  Morgan nodded.  “I knew the name was familiar!  He always has sugar cubes for the horses.”  He shrugged.  “Strange lad, but doesn’t seem mean any harm.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Morgan said.  “Madame Vivienne is…”

“Less than enthused by his presence?” Blackwall chuckled, and Morgan gave an ugly, snorting sort of cackle.

“That’s a _polite_ way of putting it,” she said.  The silence that fell after that was surprisingly comfortable.  Whatever his past might hold, he was a good man and deserved good things.  “You noticed I was nervous when we first met, right?” she finally said, picking at a stray thread.  She felt him looking at her, but didn’t lift her head.

“You were a bit… stiff.  I thought you were younger then.”  He was curious now, thick brows slightly raised.

“You… well, you look like a human version of my father.”  The rest of the words tumbled out.  “He was not a kind man.  We didn’t… _don’t_ have a good relationship.  I hadn’t seen him since I was seventeen, and then I met you and…”

“Ah.”  Blackwall nodded.  “That actually explains a few things.  I’ve known women to be nervous around men, but you weren’t like that around Varric or Iron Bull.  I figured it was just because I was human.”  He said it all with such ease, and actually shrugged. 

“I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”

“Don’t be,” he said, actually smiling.  “I’d be a bit disconcerted, too, in your shoes.  Seeing a doppelganger of someone you thought you left behind…”  Something dark crossed his face and the smile faltered, but it was only for a moment.  “I don’t make you nervous any more, do I?”

“Not since you called Sera ‘fuzzyhead’,” Morgan said, the tension in her shoulders easing. 

“Good,” Blackwall laughed.  Then he made a show of narrowing his eyes.  “You’re not going to start calling me ‘Beardy’ are you?  Or ‘Hero’?”

“Hah!  I don’t think there’s any escaping Varric’s nicknames,” Morgan said.  Pushing to her feet, she twisted from side to side until her back popped.  “Thanks for listening to me.”

“My pleasure.”  She was certain that he meant it, and his smile was warm and kind.  She really did hope that he had a happy life after all this was over…

Hinter rejoined her as she walked towards the main courtyard, his paws darkened with mud.  Morgan rested her hand on his back as they walked.  Without really thinking, she ended up in the training yard.  Cullen was running drills in the usual space, and Morgan steered herself away as a blush crept up her cheeks.  Then she saw Krem’s armor among a crowd lingering by the training ring, and she moved that way.  She couldn’t resist popping up silently at his side, grinning widely as he jumped away, hand flinching reflexively towards his back where he usually carried his war hammer.

“Fuck’s sake!” he swore when he recognized her.  “Goddammit, Cadash! The Chief was right, you are an ass!”

Morgan didn’t stop grinning.  “Hullo, Krem,” she said sweetly. 

Something grey and furry appeared from behind the man’s legs, walking over to twine around Morgan’s legs.   Looking down she saw a massive gray cat.  Her own eyes widened.  She had seen the Little Chief wandering around, but hadn’t realized just how big the kitten had gotten.  She watched the cat bump noses with Hinter, then leap up gracefully to perch on the fencepost of the training ring.

“She’s gotten huge!” Morgan said, offering a hand to sniff.  The Little Chief sniffed the fingers delicately, then butted her head against the palm. 

“She _snores_ ,” Krem said accusingly.  “Who ever heard of a _cat_ that snores?”  The cat merely flicked her tail in his direction, purring as Morgan scratched under her chin.  “Almost as bad as the _real_ Chief.”

“Bull snores?”  Morgan tried to think of a time it had happened on the road, but nothing came to mind. 

“Oh, not when he’s working.  He only ever sleeps that deep when he can let his guard down.  Not often.”  Krem shrugged.  “But when he does, you might as well be listening to a druffalo with a head-cold.” 

Morgan snorted, but said nothing.  She could feel Krem’s eyes on her, but didn’t look over.  They drifted into silence, watching two visiting mercenaries practice with wooden swords.  “You could come have a drink with the Chargers some time,” he finally said.

“I thought I already did?” Morgan said. 

“Nah, that was party,” Krem said.  “Come down some night when you’re done playing nice with the nobles.”  When she looked over, his expression was open and honest.  There was respect there, too, something that Morgan was still getting used to seeing when people looked at her.  She had never been respectable, and would still snort if someone said that she was.

“I’d like that,” Morgan finally said.  “Assuming I don’t get buried in paperwork, I’ll come down tonight?”

“Excellent!”  Krem clapped her on the shoulder.  “I’ll see you then, Cadash.” 

Then he wandered off, leaving Morgan petting the fluffy gray cat and watching grown men beat each other with play swords.  She could hear Cullen’s voice in the background, and a smile started to curve her lips.  She couldn’t stop remembering the stuttering, nervous tone he’d had, and a giggle bubbled in her chest.  The _massively_ inappropriate thoughts about Cullen hadn’t stopped, and had even featured in one or two of her more benign dreams.  The last few meetings of the advisors had been an exercise in avoiding eye contact and control of her own facial expressions.

As the sun started to cut through the early morning mist, Khim appeared, as if from nowhere, as any proper rogue should.  He didn’t care that she nearly always had meetings early in the day, and dragged her off to the part of the training yard set aside for those mad enough to train as Tempests.  So far, it was just Morgan and Sera.

 

000

 

By the time people were done asking things of her, and she had gone to all the meetings that Josephine could come up with, Morgan practically ran to the tavern.  The sun was setting, painting the mountains purple and blazing orange-crimson in the sky.  Her fingers were stained with ink and the sharp smell of alchemy still clung to her hair and clothes.  But the Herald’s Rest smelled of food, and she instantly picked out Bull’s voice above the others.  Her stomach fluttered, and she was already smiling by the time she wove through the tables to the back where the Chargers could usually be found.

Bull smiled when he saw her, waving her over to a seat next to him.  “Excellent!  We’re not drinking alone!”  Krem was sitting next to Bull on the edge of the able, and the qunari clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder.  “Thanks for inviting her, Krem de la Crème!”

Krem made a face.  “Cadash, so glad he has someone new to hit with that one,” he muttered sullenly.

Morgan smirked.  “I can think of worse places to go with Cremisius,” she said.

He snorted.  “So can the Chief, believe me,” he said.  “He loves his nicknames almost as much as Varric.”

The Bull gave a derisive sniff.  “Hey, when I was growing up, my name was just this series of numbers.  We all gave each other nicknames under the Qun.”

Something in his words caught at Morgan, and her smile faltered.  Working together for the benefit of the whole was one thing.  But to be denied such a basic form of individuality, to be nothing more than a number, a cog in a machine…  It prickled her to think of someone as bright and bold and _alive_ as Bull being seen that way.  Krem’s response cut through her thoughts.

“They ever wear shirts under the Qun, Chief?” he snipped, even as his eyes glittered with mirth.  “Or do they all run around binding their breasts like that?”  He took a drink and made a vague gesture at Bull’s chest.

“It’s a _harness_ , Krem,” Bull muttered, sounding like they’d had this conversation before.

“Yes, for you pillowy man-bosoms!”  Morgan nearly choked on the glass of wine that had been pushed over to her.  “Let me know if you ever need help binding.  You could really chisel something out of that overstuffed look.”

 _‘Binding? Oh… Oh!’_   The understanding settled easily, rendering several of Morgan’s previous fantasies about the man anatomically incorrect, but changing nothing else.  Then she realized that Krem had grown up knowing that about himself in _Tevinter_.  If Dorian’s evasiveness on who he was attracted to was any indication, it was not the most accepting place.  The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could really stop them.  “Is that why you left Tevinter?”  Shame instantly flushed her face, and she scrambled for words.  “Sorry, that’s not any of my—”

“Don’t worry, Cadash.”  Krem waved a hand.  “I mean, it’s not the most fortunate thing to know about yourself growing up one rung above slavery, but…”  He shrugged.  “At least I got a decent contract out of it.”  He nudged Bull with his foot.

“Can I ask… is that how you two met?” Morgan ventured, eyes moving between the two.

It was Krem that answered.  “I’d managed to pass in the Tevinter army for a few years, but got found out.  I ran, and, well… got into trouble along the way.  I almost got caught, but _this_ big idiot,” another nudge with his boot to Bull, “got in the way and lost his eye.  At least I never accused him of being smart.”

Bull smiled, and the softness of the expression was heartbreaking.  There was love in that look.  Not romantic or sexual, just _love_.  Ben-hassrath or not, Bull cared very deeply for the Chargers, and something twisted inside Morgan.  She realized that it was envy.  She had never had a leader like that, never had a commander that actually _looked out_ for those under their command.  The twisting began to sting, and her stomach lurched.  She wanted that sort of look from Bull to be directed at _her_.  The twisting turned to panic, pounding hard in her chest and rushing in her ears.

“Hey, is that any way to talk to the man who buys you drinks?” Bull said.  Morgan realized he was looking at her.  “I’m pretty sure you’ve met everybody at least once, but just in case…”  He pointed with his left hand, the one missing the fingers.  “We have Dalish and Skinner,” he pointed to the two Elvhen women sitting next to each other.  “You know Stitches.”  Morgan nodded to the healer, who sat on the other side of a chess board from Dalish.  “Don’t think you’ve met Rocky, though.”

The dwarf with the handlebar mustache wasn’t quite a stranger, as Morgan had seen him around the Chargers several times, but they had never been introduced.  “Surface or Orzammar?” she asked.

Rocky smiled.  “Orzammar.  I got exiled… Stupid noble crap.”  He trailed off into a grumble, obviously still slightly bitter.  “Also… I accidentally blew up a bit of the Shaperate.”

Morgan blinked, and broke out smiling despite the tightness in her chest.  “Wait, seriously?”

“Rocky’s one of our best sappers,” Bull said proudly as the other dwarf nodded.  “He can take down fortifications faster than a golem.”

“I’m working on my own version of qunari blackpowder,” Rocky put in excitedly.  “I’ve _almost_ got it!”

From the way Bull sighed and shook his head, Morgan was sure that this was another conversation that had been had before.  “Yeah… you really don’t.”  Rocky made a face and Bull rolled his eyes.  “Anyway, this is Grim.”  He nodded to a human man leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.  He just nodded and grunted.  “He doesn’t talk much.  Or… at all really,” Bull said.  “I’m pretty sure he’s the lost king of some small country.  Or a chieftain.  Something like that.”  He shrugged, and Morgan couldn’t help but admire the smooth movement of his shoulders.  “This is most of ‘em.  Others went looking for stronger drinks.”

Skinner leaned forward slightly, a grin curving her sharp, wide mouth.  “I ‘eard you thought I was _pretty_ ,” she said, the Orlesian accent taking Morgan so off guard that she couldn’t stop the blush from racing up her ears.  “Ooh, the Inquisitor blushes!”

“Play nice,” Dalish admonished, peering around her companion.  Her accent was what Morgan supposed was common for dalish elves.  The green tattoos on her pale face were as bright and beautiful as vines, and Morgan recognized something similar in the pattern to Sh’vara’s own clan markings. 

“Well if Bull isn’t making passes at ‘er, _I_ should before ‘e starts,” Skinner said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“The _last_ time you brought home one of our employers, she nearly killed me,” Dalish muttered sourly.

“Psh, but she didn’t!” Skinner said with a dismissive wave.

“And if Bull hasn’t been making passes, I’ll let Dalish turn me into a toad,” Rocky added.

“Come now, that’d make me an apostate!” Dalish cried.

“You carry a _staff_ , Dalish,” Bull pointed out.

“It’s a _bow_ ,” the elf insisted.

Krem raised a brow.  “A bow with a giant glowing crystal at the tip?”

“It’s for aiming,” Dalish sniffed.  Morgan realized that she and Skinner were wearing matching rings.  “Old elvhen trick _you_ wouldn’t understand.”

Morgan’s cheeks nearly hurt from smiling, and she shook her head.  “You’ll really take anyone, won’t you?” she said, fondness in her voice as she looked back to Bull.

“Anyone that can carry their weight in a fight,” he said.  Morgan didn’t doubt for a second the strength of those Bull chose to surround himself with. 

“You mean anyone who can put up with your _bull_ shit, Chief,” Krem said, bold as brass and smiling.

“Hey, we might not wear shirts under the Qun, but we still come down hard on the backtalk!” Bull growled.  Krem laughed, completely unfazed, and there was such lightness to him.  That same feeling twisted in Morgan’s chest again, so tight she almost couldn’t breathe, her stomach doing summersaults. 

“If you start another fight, Bull, I’m tossing you out!” Cabot shouted over the noise, and Bull shot Krem a dirty look.

Morgan took another sip of wine.  “Are you starting fights in my tavern, Bull?” she muttered.

“Hey, I can’t go easy on ‘em all the time.” 

“Sorry I keep stealing your commander,” Morgan said.

Krem held up both hands.  “No, no.  Keep him.  It means _you_ have to deal with the puns all day and night, and _we_ still get paid.”

“That’s hurtful, Krem.”

“So is listening your jokes,” the young man shot back.

Morgan was struck by how comfortable they all were with each other, and just how at ease Bull seemed.  She knew the signs of someone on edge, someone constantly aware of their surroundings.  It was still there in Bull, but softer, relaxed.  He trusted these people the way she trusted him, maybe even more.  She didn’t understand the ache opening in her chest, so she drank more of her wine, listening to Rocky start in on the changes he’d made to his latest edition of ‘qunari blackpowder’.  Morgan was just fine blowing things up with magic, but mages could be killed; anyone could light a cannon.

The sky outside darkened, and drinks continued to make the rounds.  Morgan paid for at least three.  It was nice to be able to buy things she wanted.  She’d grown up scrimping and saving every fucking copper, and still occasionally felt a bout of panic when she spent money.  But the Chargers cheered and Bull winked at her over his mug, and the panic melted into nothing.  She felt… _safe_ here.  Not in Skyhold, but in the tavern, with her title emblazoned above the door, and the building full of people she hardly knew.  Here, in this little corner of it, she felt safe.  So safe that it ached to know that it wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —last. 

Comfort and joy never lasted.  Ever.  Friends would drift away, love would fade.  She loved where she was so much that her heart broke to know that someday it would end.  There would be a day she would wake up, and there would be no Chargers in the Herald’s Rest.  The wrenching pain took her so suddenly that she felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs.  She was among friends, but couldn’t bear to let her weakness show.  Her large, wild eyes turned to Bull, desperate and terrified.

And as always, he saw it all.  He yawned and stretched, pushing out of the chair and to his feet.  He picked up his axe from where it had leaned against the wall, keeping it low.  “I’m headed to the Undercroft.  You heading that way, Boss?”

Relief flooded so easily with her way out clear.  Morgan nodded.  “Yeah.  I’m sure there’ll be a few more meetings before we head for the Emprise.”

“Hah!  You’ll ‘ave to wear a shirt!” Skinner cackled, the very sober Dalish shaking her head fondly at the other woman. 

The two bid their farewells, and wandered outside.  The moment the door closed behind them, Morgan turned on her heel and nearly sprinted for the shadows behind the building.  She fell back against the wall, chest heaving but her lungs still screaming for air.  Bull was in front of her in a blink, one hand light on her shoulder while the other tilted her head up to look at him. 

“Morgan.”  He so rarely used her name, it was just enough of a jolt to make her nod, acknowledging that she was aware of him.  “Do you know where you are?”  Bull knew the signs of a panic attack, and just how many different forms they could take.  Before anything else, he had ground her, give her something to gravitate to.

She nodded stiffly, trying to breathe through her nose.  “S-Skyhold,” she stuttered.  Tears were streaming down her cheeks, eyes wide and her heart as loud as thunder in her ears. 

Bull didn’t waver.  “Good,” he said, still stroking her cheek.  “Who are you with?”

“Y-you,” Morgan managed, his face blurry now.

“My name, Morgan,” he said patiently.  “What’s my name?”  He leaned forward, letting his forehead bump hers.  Morgan’s hands snapped out, grabbing his horns and squeezing until her knuckles burned. 

“Th-the Iron B-Bull.”  Her face was wet, nose running, but her chest was taking air now, some of the desperation leaving her breaths.

“That’s good, Morgan,” he murmured.  “That’s really good.  Now I want you to repeat after me, okay?”  She nodded stiffly.  “I’m safe.”

“I-I-I’m s-sa-safe.”  It came out in a cracked voice, the tears and rasping breaths working their way further into her voice.

“Again.”

“I’m s-s-safe.”

“Do you believe that?”

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut.  “I _know_ I’m safe, but there’s so much I could lose!  I’m going to lose it all when it’s over!  I’ve made friends for the first time and it’s all going to vanish when—!”

“No.”  Bull pulled away from her, grabbing her chin and squeezing so hard that she had to open her eyes.  “I’m not going anywhere.  I don’t where this shit leads, but even if the Inquisition goes to shit, what you have made is _not_ going anywhere!”  He cupped her face in both hands, and felt her clutching at him, desperate for an anchor.  “Even when all this is over, it’s not lost.  I don’t care if I go back to Par Vollen, I’m still your friend.  Dorian may go back to Tevinter, Varric to Kirkwall, but none of that changes what you’ve forged here!”

She wanted so badly to believe him, to just believe the beautiful lie that he was spinning for her, trying to give her something to fall into, some amount of comfort.  Even if it _was_ a lie, she would clutch it tight for as long as it was hers.  Taking a long breath, she straightened, pulling Bull’s hands from her face to clutch with her own.  “Come back with me,” she said, voice still thick with tears.  “Walk me back to my room and just sit with me.  Please?”

Did she really think he’d deny her?  Just because she could be soft, just because she let herself break when she finally had no one asking anything of her, did she still think he’d reject her for it?  He had to hide a rueful smile, realizing that she was nearly as broken as he was, just in a different way.  “Sure thing, Boss.”  He stood up, and when her hand still clung to one of his own, he let it.  He slung his axe up onto on shoulder; it was still a decent excuse for him to be going the same way as Morgan.

 

000

 

Getting up to her room unnoticed wasn’t a problem; it was late enough that even most of the servants were in bed.  Hinter had dozed off beside the door that led to Morgan’s rooms, and was quickly on his feet when he heard them approaching. When he smelled the tears and distress, he put himself on Morgan’s other side, offering a single soft whine of concern.  She smiled weakly and scratched him behind the ear, finding herself unwilling to let go of Bull’s hand as they climbed the stairs.  When they were inside, and the door was locked behind them, Morgan looked around as if observing a stranger’s room.

As always, a fire still lingered in the fireplace, burning low in the late hours.  She stepped away from Bull, shuffling over to toss a few longs into the embers.  Hinter followed, standing at her side and watching her face intently.  Bull watched as the flames caught at the new fuel, gold light rising and giving Morgan’s small frame a long, imposing shadow.  Leaning his axe against the side of the sofa, he walked over to stand at her other side.  Almost instantly, her hand sought his again, and he squeezed reassuringly.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan finally said, staring at the growing flames.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Bull said immediately.

“I’m the _Inquisitor_ , Bull.  I don’t get to break down like this!”  Her voice was a rasp from ragged breathing.

“Okay, so remind me when you did this during a fight where people were depending on you?  ‘Cause I’m having trouble remembering.”  Morgan opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.  “That’s what I thought.  You think you’re the only person to struggle with being a leader?  It’s pretty damn normal, Boss.”

She still couldn’t bear to look up at him.  Her eyes were drawn to the melted stubs of candles, remembering the way the flames had blazed and danced, and felt stab of guilt.  She was lying to Bull.  Well, maybe not _lying_ , but she was still keeping things from him.  And if he _did_ find out… all his pretty lies would fall away.  She’d be another strange magical thing for him to tolerate.  And her having not told him in the first place, when he probably knew more about her than anyone…  She couldn’t do it.

“I’m having mage dreams, Bull,” she whispered, so soft he almost didn’t hear.

“What?”

“The dreams kids have before their magic manifests.  Ice on the sheets, things like that… It’s happening to _me_.”  She was fully ready for him to pull his hand from hers, to show trepidation and confusion.  Instead, he was silent for a moment, before tugging her back to the sofa and making her sit down.  Folding her hands into her lap, she still couldn’t look up at him, terrified of what she would see.  Even when the sofa creaked and dipped as he sat next to her.  Hinter had followed, hopping up on her other side and laying his head in her lap.

Bull was quiet for a long time.  “So, you’re gonna have to help me a little bit here,” he said at last.  “I know that mage kids get dreams, sometimes demons trying to take advantage of them, and if they get scared, they can set shit on fire.  But that’s _mages_.  Are you trying to say that you, in all your Dwarven glory, are…?”  He trailed off, seeming almost as wary of the word as Morgan herself.

“You remember the time in Witchwood?”  Morgan said.  “When I took the full force of a blast of fire but nothing happened?”  She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye, waiting silently for her to continue.  “The Mark… it gave me dreams, and connected me to the Fade.  There…”  She had to take a deep breath, feeling a lump rise in her throat and more tears threatening.  “There are… _theories_ that if whatever cuts dwarves off from the Fade were removed, they’d be just as likely to be mages as anyone else…”  She had to laugh at the absurdity of it all, the sound dry and rueful.

Bull sat in silence for a while, going over her words in his head.  He didn’t recoil or draw away, just remained as he was.  Morgan _knew_ that information like this took time to properly wrap your head around, but the silence ate at her, pulling at her doubt and fear.  Finally, Bull sighed, and lifted a hand to scratch at the base of his horn.  “Well, shit, Boss,” he said.  “You don’t do anything half-way, do you?”

When she dared to look up, there was a half-smile on his face.  “You’re not… mad?”  She sounded so very much like a terrified child that she actually bit her tongue. 

Bull was well aware that most women got nervous when men got visibly angry.  Even those that had lived a life free of any kind of abuse seemed to have that instinct.  But Morgan would sometimes shrink in on herself, as if bracing for a blow.  Instead of pity, seeing someone so capable of strength and kindness reduced to cowering just pissed him off.  He would like to have a few particular _words_ with the blacksmith that had raised her.  But she didn’t need anger right now, so he did what he had been trained to do, and compartmentalized.

He reached out, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.  She didn’t flinch, and he kept his hand where it was.  “No.  Just so long as you don’t set _me_ on fire, we’re good.”  He was smiling at her, letting her see his honesty.

“I dunno, some of your pants are pretty awful,” Morgan muttered, and his smile widened.  “Dorian and Vivienne would thank me.”

“There she is!  The snarky little asshole with no taste!”  His thumb brushed her cheek, and her stomach flipped.  “This is still weird as shit, though.”

His tone was so plan and matter-of-fact that Morgan couldn’t help but laugh.  His hand fell back and she resisted the urge to lean into him.  All this softness beyond sex would normally have sent her running for the hills, but she knew that qunari didn’t do romantic love.  So she gave in, letting her head bump against his shoulder.  “Thank you, Bull.”

It was so painfully easy to put his arm around her and gather her to his side.  Despite her size she fit there perfectly, comfortable and warm.  He tried to think if he’d ever had anything like this before.  Yes, there were people he’d bedded more than once, but this… this was a bit different.  It wasn’t just good sex.  He’d known it wouldn’t be, that Morgan would need more than that.  But the thing that kept drawing his mind back to it was how _easy_ it was for him.  It was _easy_ to just sit there with her, letting her even out her nervous breathing.  It felt _good_ to make her happy, to let her see just how strong she was.

“What are we doing, Bull?”

He blinked down at the top of her head.  “Pretty sure we’re sitting in your room, Boss.”

Morgan’s head jerked up and she poked him in the ribs.  “I mean… this.  It’s not… well it’s not like we went over rules and things like we said we would.”

“True, but I think spending a couple days celebrating _not_ dying in the Fade is allowed,” Bull said, and she rolled her eyes.  “Now are you talking about sex, or just the whole thing?”

“Whole thing, I guess,” Morgan said, shoulders shrugging under his arm.  “I mean, I know that neither of us do the whole romantic relationship thing.”  Why did those words feel awkward on her tongue, like they didn’t quite fit in her mouth?  “I guess, I’m… well I was wondering if… I should start getting charms from the healer again.”  Her cheeks colored slightly, and she was able to convince herself that it was because she felt silly for not asking earlier.

“Heal—oh!”  Bull relaxed into the sofa, spreading the arm not around Morgan out over the back.  “No.  That’s not something you need to worry about.”

Morgan pulled her legs up under her, stretching them out alongside Hinter as she leaned fully into Bull.  “I figured I should ask.  I mean, elves and humans can have children, so…”  She shrugged.

“There are elves and humans living under the Qun—they’re called the Viddathari—and more dwarves than you’d expect.”  The only thing missing, he thought, was something to put his feet up on.  “The Tamassrans don’t care who we have sex with, but reproduction is more… clinical, I guess?”

He was ridiculously comfortable, and Morgan wasn’t about to interrupt him.  She was _massively_ curious about Qunari culture, but since it had nothing to do with the Inquisition or what they were doing, she hadn’t thought to ask much beyond Bull’s own life.  “I’ve heard rumors,” she admitted.  “We all know how reliable _those_ are.”

Bull snorted.  “Some of them aren’t too far off.  They pair of us off depending on traits, sort of you like you do with dogs or horses.  Like if you have these two amazing warriors, you’d want to put them together to make amazing warrior babies, right?”

“Now I’m just imagining a horde of baby qunari with tiny swords,” Morgan said, and Bull snorted.  She glanced up at him.  “But what if… well, what if they’re like Sera?”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.  “You ask so many questions, it’s no wonder you ended up an Inquisitor,” he said.  She ducked her head.

“Sorry…”

“Hey…”  He nudged her under the chin with his hand, making her look back up at him.  “There’s nothing wrong with that.  And to answer your question, I guess it would be _weird_ for them, but reproduction is so different from sex for pleasure that none of the people I knew that were like that ever seemed uncomfortable about it.”

“Well… that’s good, I guess.”  She must have made some sort of face, because he chuckled at her again.  “What?”

“You’re always so concerned about everyone, even people you don’t even know,” Bull said.  Even with the fire going, his face was deeply shadowed in the large room, and she was struck by the urge to trace the lines of his face, particularly the scars at the edge of his mouth. 

Instead, she gave him a quizzical look.  “I mean… I suppose?  I always thought of myself as selfish.”  She shrugged.  “Half the time I make decisions based on what will get me out of an awkward situation the fastest.”

Again, that small kindling of anger, deep in his gut.  She was one of the _least_ selfish people that he knew.  While he couldn’t, _for certain_ , blame her father for that one, he was still pretty damn sure it was his falt.  “Well, when was the last time you didn’t stop to run an errand for some family in town?” he said.  “We went half way across the Hinterlands to put _flowers_ on a stranger’s grave.”

Morgan frowned.  “He was old!  He couldn’t take the flowers himself, and it wasn’t like it was _too_ out of the way!” 

“Pretty sure that the only other person here that would have done that is Cole,” Bull said.

“Fine!  I’m a damn saint!” Morgan cried in mock frustration, and Bull laughed.  Leaning in, he slid a hand up her thigh, stopping just shy of where they met as he lowered his head.  Morgan made a noise of pleased surprise as his lips sealed over her.

“Okay, gonna have to stop you there, or this is going to be very awkward.”

Morgan and Bull sprang apart, and Hinter leaped from the sofa, fangs bared.  Morgan saw the glinting of steel as weapons were raised against the attacking dog.  Bull cursed himself, he was already halfway there, but he wasn’t fast enough.  Then Morgan screamed, an _all_ of them were thrown back.  Bull tucked and rolled, head ringing as his horn struck the stone floor.  He barely had time to register that he’d been hit with _force_ _magic_ before he saw Morgan dart across the room, a blade materializing in her hand.

The body belonged to a dwarf, and it was reaching for its daggers again.  Morgan dropped, putting her full weight behind her knee as she jammed it into the assailant’s spine.  A male voice cried out and swore, in the same moment Morgan pressed her belt knife to the side of their throat.  It was smaller than her usual daggers, but no less deadly.  “Who the _fuck_ are you?” she spat, grabbing a handful of short hair.

The dwarven man held his hand open and empty at either side of his head.  “Willen Cadash, at your service, Inquisitor.”

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the cliffhanger! Do any of you guys remember Willen? I mentioned him before n passing, but he'll have a bit more of a part now. I always felt that there was a lacking reaction from the Carta about one of their members suddenly becoming one of the most powerful people in Thedas, so I'm expanding. Also it's a chance to advance relationships and shit. Also, I would totally have romanced Blackwall if he didn't look like MY father... I need to learn to mod away the beard, lol. As always, thank you SO MUCH for reading, and let me know what you think! 
> 
> (I'll make good on all the kinky tags, I promise)


	20. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back story, yay! Except there's more angst. Lots.

Pieces:

 

 _Mage in the room.  Take them out before they get off another spell…_   Bull came surging back to his feet, adjusting his grip on the axe.  But there was no mage.  Just Morgan.  He blinked, confusion rushing in.  Then he snapped back, leaving instinct for actual awareness.  Morgan… she’d used fucking magic.  So… it really was an actual… thing.  The set of her shoulders changed, almost relaxing.  But she didn’t take the knife from the intruder’s throat.  Hinter circled, the hair on his back standing on end and his fangs bared, his low growl the only sound in the room.

“Now,” said the intruder, a male dwarf, “if you could just get your knee out of my spine, I’d really appreciate it.”  Marcher accent, similar to Morgan.  And the name.  Bull knew that name; maternal cousin, enforcer for the Carta with a child of his own.

Confusion at Willen’s presence and the fact that she may or may not have just used _magic_ to throw people bodily across the room warred in her mind, pulling it in all directions.  Then she heard the subtle metallic shift of Bull’s ankle brace, and her head snapped around.  “Are you alright?”  Panic pounded its way into her chest.  If she’d hurt him…

“I’m fine.”  His words were clipped, and he wasn’t looking at her, and for a moment she was terrified.  Then she saw him glaring down at the body she had pinned to the floor.  “Why is your cousin hiding in your room?”  _His_ posture hadn’t relaxed, axe still ready.

Willen craned his head back, and she loosened her grip on his hair slightly.  Familiar blue eyes stared up out of a sun-tanned face.  “Shit, it really is you, Morgan,” Willen said, eyes widening in clear awe and confusion.  “But that was…  Did you just do magic?”

Morgan could feel a harness of blades under her knee, more weapons than the daggers that were now out of Willen’s reach.  Even if there was no bad blood between them, she still wasn’t ready to let him go.  “What are you doing here?”  Then, anger settling in, “you drew a blade on my fucking dog!”  Her hand tightened in his hair, yanking sharply as she leaned into her knee.

“Alright, that may have been poor judgement on my part,” the other dwarf grunted, squirming slightly at the pressure on his lungs.  “But to be fair, I didn’t know you had a dog.”

Morgan let him breathe a little.  “You snuck into my room!”

“To warn you!”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed.  “About what?”

“Aunt Dorothea.”

Silence stretched for several long moments.  Morgan let go of Willen’s hair, and got back to her feet, taking several steps back and staring at him.  Hinter’s attention shifted, scenting the nervous sweat that broke out on his master’s upper lip. 

“Shit.”

 

000

 

The silence around the War Table was oppressive.  Bull leaned against the corner with his arms crossed, doing his best glowering bodyguard impression.  And considering he wasn’t really a fan of people that snuck into their cousin’s rooms in the middle of the night while armed to the fucking teeth, it wasn’t a difficult role to pull off.  Morgan had been staring at her tea for several moments, her expression sliding between unreadable and blank, and seething anger.  Finally, she pushed her chair back, stalked over to the cabinet tucked in the corner, and returned with a crystal decanter of brandy.  She poured a measure into her tea, returned the decanter, and then sat back down again.

“So… your aunt runs the Cadash clan?” Cullen ventured.  His hair was a mess of untamed blond curls, which Morgan and Bull would probably make comments about later, but for now, it went largely ignored.  Morgan was actually glad to have another matter to focus on, considering the last time she’d ‘seen’ Cullen, she’d been busy getting fucked into a wall.  Cassandra’s full length nightgown with lace at the collar and sleeves had also been mostly forgotten.  She had, of course, changed, when the need for a meeting became apparent.  But none of them were in their usual dress, in plain shirts and breeches, and in Josephine’s case, and elegant dressing gown.

“My mother’s aunt, technically,” Morgan muttered sourly, taking a drink of her tea.  The brandy burned its way down to her stomach along with the honey-sweet chamomile.  The warmth that settled there was a comfort against the anxiety lacing her pounding heart into her chest like an Orlesian corset.  “But everyone calls her _Aunty_.  Don’t know how that got fucking started.”

“You made it clear the only association you wanted with your family was with your mother,” Leliana put in.  “I’ve sent word to those with her that they need to be watching out for anything out of the ordinary.”

A smile broke through Morgan’s glower.  “Thank you, Leliana,” she said honestly, and was surprised to get a matching expression in return.  Leliana had been so listless since Morgan had relayed the message from the spirit left behind by Divine Justinia.  Seeing a smile on the bard’s usually cold face was good for the soul, Morgan decided.  “I may want to move her, if Aunty tries anything.”

The Nightingale nodded.  “I already have plans in place, and we are ready to go through with them at your command.”

“I’m a bit more interested in how a Carta enforcer got into the Inquisitor’s room without raising a single alarm,” Bull said, voice edged with anger.  Not only was it directed at whatever guards had been on duty, but with _himself_.  He’d been so focused on Morgan that he’d let his guard down, putting her in possible danger.  What if it hadn’t been Willen, but an actual assassin?  His mind was conveniently ignoring the fact Morgan may or may not have used magic to throw both him and Willen across the room.  He had still _missed_ it.

“Grappling hook,” Cullen growled, looking just as surly and upset with himself as Bull felt.  He slammed the offending device down on the table, a tatter of rope still hanging from the loop at the end.  “He’s apparently been here for a week, and used this from the gardens.  He came with the latest group of pilgrims.”

“Don’t you have guards watching her window?” Bull demanded, and Morgan frowned at that thought.  She liked to wander her rooms naked before dressing when she had the time, and didn’t much enjoy the thought of strangers peering up at her.

“They were… distracted,” Cullen said, and there was clear anger and embarrassment now, his hands balling into fists at his sides.  Bull had noticed a shake to them, as had Morgan, but both just filed it away for later.  “Someone put a sleeping draught in their water.”

Leliana nodded, and her smile actually remained.  “It’s actually quite ingenious, considering most such potions have a distinctive taste.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and Morgan had to hide a smile.  “Can we not be impressed by the intruder, please?”

“I have a name you know.”

All eyes turned to the dwarf sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room.  He had been thoroughly searched, and stripped down to just a layer more than his smalls.  The numerous weapons he’d had on his person were spread across the table.  “You are lucky you are not in the dungeons, dwarf,” Cassandra snapped.  

Willen instantly held up his hands in a peaceful gesture.  His large ears and big, bright blue eyes made him look a great deal more innocent and harmless than he actually was.  He was quite tall for a dwarf, with more of a lean build than Varric.  He tanned as opposed to Morgan’s freckling, and had a new scar on his forehead and a new break in his nose.  New was a relative term, of course, as Morgan hadn’t seen him in close to three years.

“Willen is _not_ in Aunty’s good graces,” Morgan explained, taking another long drink of her tea.  Without more than a scone in her belly, the brandy softened the edge of her anxiety nicely.  “He’s an enforcer, but regularly refuses to do his job on account of the fact that he’s a giant softy.”

“Who would I go to in order to complain that the Herald of Andraste is maligning my character?” Willen muttered.

“Don’t call me that!” Morgan snapped, louder than she had meant.  She set her tea-cup down.  “Sorry.  Inquisitor is fine, if you _have_ to.  But just… don’t.”  She put her elbows on the table and leaned her face into her hands, rubbing at her eyes.  “So Aunty is going to pay me a visit, is she?”

The other dwarf crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at nothing in particular.  “She says she’d worried that someone is _using_ the Cadash name, but I’m damn sure she knows it’s you and just wants _her_ piece of the pie.”

“Her piece of—oh, for fuck’s sake!”  Bull came away from the wall, walking forward to stand between Morgan and Cassandra.  He somehow managed twice the intensity of the Seeker, despite only having half as many eyes to glare at Willen with.  “Explain.  Now.”

At first, Morgan thought the brandy was hitting harder than she’d expected.  But the fluttering in her chest was a bit too familiar.  As Willen explained a few snippets of the personal history of the power hungry Dorothea Cadash, a realization settled over her.  No one had ever been so interested in protecting her that they got angry when she was threatened.  Battle was different to her; if you wanted to live, you protected the people you fought beside.  Getting angry at the mere _possibility_ of a threat to her safety… it was entirely new to her.  As she looked around the room, even Josephine had turned a sharp eye on her cousin, and was probably already plotting the favors and leverage she would need to bury the Carta clan.

“So, she wants me to use Inquisition power and sway to help her with whatever she’s currently scheming,” Morgan summarized when Willen was finished.  Hinter stuck his head out from under the table and laid it in Morgan’s lap.  He’d spent the entire meeting with his head on her feet, but her speaking seemed to necessitate closer attention.  She made a decision.  “Leliana, start things for bringing my mother to Skyhold.  I’m not leaving her out there if fucking _Aunty_ gets any ideas.”  Leliana nodded.

“I can let her down gently if you like,” Josephine put in, a fiendish yet infinitely innocent expression on her lovely face.  “We, of course, cannot simply lend out our power to anyone who asks, _even_ to family of the Inquisitor.”  She said it with a smile, but her eyes were as sharp as obsidian, and Morgan did not miss the fond look that Cassandra threw the ambassador’s way.

“No,” Morgan sighed heavily.  “I’m very tempted, believe me.  But I’m going to have to tell her to fuck off personally.  And then we’re going to have to deal with _that_.”

Bull’s head came around, eye narrowed, but it was Cullen that spoke first.  “Is she likely to retaliate?”

“She’s been killing her way up the chain of command since she was thirteen, and is very, _very_ used to getting what she wants.”  Morgan’s tone was heavy and resigned.  She had hoped that she would be left alone, but part of her had known that it would be in vain.  With the Cadash name now being spoken in the highest circles of society, there was no way that Dorothea would leave her alone.

“We could always end the problem before it starts,” Leliana said smoothly.  Her meaning was clear, and Willen’s face split into a huge smile.

“Oh, I _like_ her,” he said happily. 

“Josephine,” Morgan said, and the woman instantly had her quill poised over paper.  “Prepare a proper greeting for my aunt.  A nice meal—she likes rabbit—and once she sees just how much we have, I’m going to tell her to go fuck herself with rashvine nettle.”

The ambassador blinked.  “Is that… wise?” she questioned cautiously.

“For the woman that ordered at least four attempts on my life during training, yes,” Morgan said, and Josephine finally got a glimpse of the venom and sharpness she had heard so much about.  “She is going to see what treating people like trash gets her.  I want her positively slavering for a chance to get us under her thumb, and to then tear the fucking rug out from under her.”

“You realize, of course, that this will likely bring the Carta down on us,” Leliana pointed out.

“The family that matters to me has already distanced themselves from Dorothea, some marrying into other clans, and others leaving Carta life entirely.  She has walked all over people for decades, and none of the other clans bear her any love.  I want her to know _exactly_ what happens when they think they can use us—the _Inquisition_ , as a pawn.”  She pushed to her feet, chair skidding back.  “I won’t let her treat you like another rung on her damned ladder, and she won’t use us to further her stupid fucking plots.”

All but Bull and Cassandra seemed slightly taken aback by her words.  Unlike the two warriors, they had not spent months fighting at her side, watching her bend over backwards to protect her allies, and even perfect strangers.  They had seen her step into a role that terrified her, and seen her flourish.  Cassandra’s scowl broke into a smile, and Bull was smirking.  They had seen just how fiercely she had come to love her new, rag-tag family.  She was learning to trust all of them, and would suffer no fools that threatened what she built for herself.  This was her _home_ , and she would protect it with everything she had.

 

000

 

Morgan went off with Hinter after plans were laid out.  Bull felt himself move to go after her, but found Leliana suddenly in his path.  She looked up at him with those piercing eyes and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.  He sighed, and let her lead him to the small, but brightly lit room that she appeared to use as an office.  There was an albino Raven with half a wing perched there, and it croaked softly, eyeing Bull with an eye he might have found pleasant in color if it hadn’t been _staring_ at him.

“I want to discuss your relationship with the Inquisitor,” Leliana said bluntly.

Still, it wasn’t a giveaway that she knew they were sleeping together.  It was obvious to just about anyone that the Herald never went anywhere without her bodyguard.  Even if other members of the party varied, she always took Bull with her.  There were rumors, of course, but that didn’t mean that Red knew anything for _certain_.  “Alright,” he said, leaving against the wall as opposed to risking the rather nice armchair sitting across from Leliana’s desk.

“You’re sleeping with her.”

Well, shit.  There went _that_.  His face never changed.  “And?”  He liked Red.  She was smart and ruthless, and willing to make the hard decisions, even if she seemed to share the same soft-heartedness that Morgan did.  But it wasn’t exactly her business what Morgan wanted in her private time.  He could understand, of course.  What a person did privately could have a great impact on their actions in public.

Leliana sighed.  “If I ask her, she will either artfully deny everything, or just blush and make an excuse to get away.  You, at least, will listen.”  He still said nothing.  If Morgan wanted to tell people, that was fine.  It wasn’t like it would hurt his reputation or his work.  Another sigh.  “Honestly?  I think it is a good idea,” she said.  “She needs a distraction, and hitting straw dummies and new recruits can only help so much with certain… frustrations.” 

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Red,” Bull said, unable to hide a grin.

She didn’t miss a beat.  “I am.  But the fact remains that no one is in a better position to hurt her now than _you_.”  The words were sharp, cutting through his bravado and laying bare the fact that he really _did_ trust the dwarf.  Maybe not _quite_ like Krem and the Chargers, not yet, but pretty damn close.  Given his druthers, he’d have picked her to have at his back in a fight, out of all of those that had gathered. 

“The Breach is closed,” she continued.  “The reports you have shared indicate some think that the matter is dealt with.”

“And I—”

“Yes, I know that you assured them that they were _not_.  As advantageous as it is having you here, if you become anything that could harm the Inquisitor, I will gladly risk the anger of the entire Ben-Hassrath and kill you.”

For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like he was courting her…  “You know, you’re the _second_ person to threaten my life because of this,” he remarked. 

“Varric, yes?”  Was there anything Red didn’t know?  Probably not.  “I did try to ask him about it, but he said it was ‘none of anyone’s business.’”

“He’s right,” Bull said, voice dropping a few octaves, taking on a warning edge.  “She needs the place where she’s not the Herald, and I’m happy to give that to her.” 

All pretense at being cordial dropped from Leliana’s face, and she speared him with a piercing look.  She stared at his face for a long time, then finally sat back and sighed, reaching up to stroke the flightless raven.  It nibbled at her bare finger.  “Go then.”  She waved in the general direction of the door.  “She’s probably going to get into trouble with Sera if she’s left alone in this state for too long.”

 

000

 

Morgan didn’t exactly get into trouble, but she was a bit startled when a box and its contents soared past her head and smashed against the wall by the door just as she stepped inside.  Hinter yelped in surprise, and Morgan swore loudly, both dwarf and canine eyes swinging up.  It was Cullen. Obviously, since she had just… 

 _“Sweet Maker, I wandered into his fucking office!  Who wants and office on one of the main paths of the castle?!  And how did he get back so quickly?!”_   Color rose instantly to her cheeks, but her flustered thoughts ebbed as she watched frustrated anger melt instantly from the ex-templar’s face, changing quickly to shock, and then to shame.  “I didn’t hear—I am so sorry!”  His voice was hoarse and ragged, as if he’d been breathing hard too long. 

Morgan’s eyes flicked to his hands in time to see him ball the trembling fingers into fists.  He was also much paler than usual.  “Cullen?” she said, taking a cautious step inside and closing the door behind her.  Something was wrong.  She knew Cullen well enough to be fairly certain of his mannerisms, and quite a lot of things were _not_ matching up.  Concern came in, her brows coming together.

Instantly, Hinter left his master’s side, running up to the man that had done nothing but spoil him every chance he got.  His whine was plaintive and insistent, and Cullen reached out a hand to ruffle his ears, a smile appearing briefly.  “Forgive me,” he said, lifting his eyes back to Morgan.

It was quite shocking to see one’s own feelings so clearly reflected in another’s face.  Cullen looked _lost_.  Lost, in pain, and very, _very_ tired.  Her body tensed, and she bit her lip.  She wasn’t good with things like this, and a million and one ways of how to just duck out of the situation came easily to mind.  But Hinter followed the commander with such worried eyes.  “Do you…  Do you need to talk or…?”  She trailed off awkwardly, leaving the question to hang, giving him an option to tell her to leave.  _“Please tell me to go, I’m not good at this…”_   She had to force down other thoughts, trying not to remember the way Bull’s hold had tightened on her when— _No, you stop that!_

He shook his head, coming out from behind his desk.  “No, you don’t have to—”  He stumbled.  Not over a fold in the rug or some fallen object, but because his knees had buckled.  Morgan was at his side without thinking, catching his arm and ready to take his weight.  But she shied away from her touch, leaning on the desk.  He tried to drop his eyes from hers, but as he was quite a bit taller than her, so instead he had to look away.  That just exposed the tension in his jaw and neck.

“You’re going to sit,” Morgan said firmly, moving past him and coming back with his chair.  She sat it behind him, and came around to his side.

“I never meant for this to interfere—” he began.

“I said sit _down_ , Commander Cullen.”  Neither of them were quite sure where the commanding tone came from, but he sat all the same, the shock quickly fading back to that same pained expression.  “Hinter, sit.”  She pointed to Cullen’s side, and the dog did exactly as he was told, nuzzling his big head under the arm hanging limply.  Reflexively, Cullen’s hands curled against the short fur, scratching in an idle way that Hinter seemed to appreciate.  Morgan knew that she could leave, to just let him be or tell him to see a healer or…  “Are you alright?” she said instead, trying to get him to look at her.

Hand anchored near Hinter’s tattered but velvety ears, Cullen risked glancing up.  Morgan’s dark brows were furrowed, all her anger from the morning forgotten as she looked at him with—no… no, it… it _wasn’t_ pity.  It was the same look he’d seen her give when she knocked a recruit down just a little too hard, or when one of the animals got themselves hurt.  Never pity, but real, warm concern, a want to make it _better_.  Instead of soothing him, it caught at him, nettles and barbs of a thing he didn’t _deserve_.

“Yes,” he said, then the pain in his head burst again, and he sucked in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut.  Morgan reached out without thinking, but quickly snatched her hand back before she touched him without permission.  “I… I don’t know,” Cullen finally said.

That lost expression was back, and it was definitely one she knew.  Something in the past had its teeth in him, dragging him down.  She _knew_ that panic.  “Cullen, I’m going to touch you, is that alright?”  She felt color creeping in her cheeks again, despite her completely chaste intentions.  Her mind was stupid and kept focusing on the scar near the corner of his mouth, so very like her own.  She tightened her jaw and refocused; he needed grounding.

Cullen’s head felt fuzzy, and the headache was making even the light from the candles hurt his eyes.  He nodded, confused.  Cool hands gently cupped his face, turning it slightly.  Cullen blinked, forcing the image before him into focus.  Morgan.  The Inquisitor.  He’d thrown… Maker, what was _wrong_ with him?  Her jerked, and she yanked her hands back so quickly that it startled him.  Instead, Morgan put her hand next to Cullen’s where it rested on Hinter’s neck, her pinky just brushing the edge of his thumb, the barest touch to remind him that she was there.

“Cullen,” she said.  His eyes seemed to look past her, still lost and scared.  Her chest clenched in empathy.  He made a quiet sound, muffled by his clenched jaw.  Pain.  “Commander Rutherford!” she snapped, doing her very best impression of Cassandra.  His eyes snapped back, focusing again.  “Do you know where you are?” Morgan said evenly.

Pain, so much pain.  His skull felt like it was caught in a vice.  He realized that Morgan was trying to draw him back, trying to give him a point of focus.  He snatched it up, hand leaving Hinter for fear of grabbing an ear too roughly.  His larger hand clamped down around her wrist, and green light flare as her palm turned upwards.  Oddly enough, it was that that drew his gaze, sharpening his mind.  Morgan saw it and lifted the hand.

“You know who I am, Cullen?”  The sharpness had left her tone.

“The Herald,” he heard himself stay, and Morgan didn’t begrudge him the use of the title.  The words gave him a reminder, anchored him in the present.  _Not_ Kirkwall, _not_ Kinloch…  He was able to let go of her wrist.  “Skyhold.  And I’m… Maker, this is _so_ —”

“Cullen, if you call this stupid I’m going to let Sera loose in here,” Morgan said gently.  “This happens to me, too.”  That got his attention, and he blinked, brows furrowing slightly.  It hurt.  “I get lost in bad things and sometimes I can’t remember where I am.”

Well, there went all his self-depreciating comments about being _weak_.  “Oh,” was all he could think to say. 

“Now that you know where you are, do you need me to get anyone?  Cassandra?  A healer?”  Instantly he shook his head, and groaned at the sudden movement.  “Ah.  Headache.”  When he looked at her, she made and exaggerated face of disgust, and she saw a flicker at the edge of his mouth.  “Now, and please don’t fall over again, did you…”  The awkwardness came surging back, but she was in too deep to back out now.  “Did you want to talk?”

It was time to tell her.  Cassandra had told him so just the evening prior.  He sighed, lifting his hands to massage his temples.  It would require explanation.  Was he ready to give her that much about him?  To expose that much of himself?  But whether he was ready or not didn’t matter.  It was for the Inquisition, and he had seen this morning just how important protecting the Inquisition was to her.  “It may take a bit of time to explain,” he said wearily.

Morgan felt immensely selfish as she as the urge to run returned.  She stamped it down and bit into her discomfort, leaning casually against the desk.  “Josephine and Leliana haven’t sent runners for me, and Khim hasn’t found me so far,” she said lightly, lifting her shoulders in shrug.

“You asked me, back in Haven, about how my Circle fell,” Cullen began.  “Not _my_ circle of course, but the one where I—anyway.”  He was stalling, she realized, trying to build himself up for something he was uncomfortable with, but wanted to talk about anyways.  “It was… taken over by abominations.”  His words were stiff and stilted, eyes flicking occasionally to the glowing green mark on Morgan’s hand.  “My friends were… killed.  And I…”  Maker, help him, his voice cracked.

“You don’t… you don’t have to,” Morgan heard herself say gently, and part of her really didn’t want him to.  She felt like she was viewing some private moment, something Cullen would rather have kept to himself.  Her eyes slid away from him.

“I _do_ ,” Cullen pressed.  Hinter whined and put his head in the man’s lap, sensing his distress.  Cullen stroked the mutt idly, the repetitive motion somewhat calming.  “ _I_ was _not_ killed.  They kept me for… I don’t know _why_.  But… the fact remains.  I was tortured for… days, weeks?  I’m still not completely sure.”

The information unfolded in Morgan’s belly like a flower of blades, cutting at her, igniting something fierce and protective.  He was far from perfect, but he did _not_ deserve—!

“They were trying to break me, not just my body, but my mind…”  He continued, eyes going steely.  He had started, and he wasn’t going to stop until it was finished.  “I don’t… I’m still not sure how I scraped all the pieces together.  How can a person be the same after that?”

 _“They couldn’t,”_ Morgan thought, trying to keep from seething aloud about whoever had done this to him.  But she remained silent, letting him speak.

“But still, I wanted to _serve_.”  He said the word with derision, looking back bitterly on what he was starting to think had been a wasted youth.  “So they sent me to _Kirkwall_.  I trusted my commander like a good soldier and she…”  He felt a lump rise in his throat, and Maker, he was _not_ going to shed tears before the Inquisitor.  “She fed into my own fear of mages and magic.  The sort of things I said and thought and _did_ …  _Her_ fear of mages led her to madness.  The Kirkwall Circle fell.  Innocent people died in the streets.”  So, _so_ many people.  Children.  He began tracing a scar on Hinter’s muzzle, feeling the animal exhale gently against his hand. 

Morgan knew, without a doubt, that he would not want her pity, so she was honest.  “Hawke told me some things,” she said, and saw him flinch, covering his face with one hand.  “If you had ever raised a hand to a mage, I’d have thrown you out myself.  But you haven’t.  You haven’t allowed others to abuse them, either.  A person’s actions _matter_.  I have seen you step back when you knew a mage was afraid, and offer others a word of reassurance.  Even if you still have the thoughts, _knowing_ that they are wrong is good.”

Something in her chest ached sharply.  She was forever hearing her father’s voice in her head—and dreams now—telling her just how useless she was.  She would think all the terrible things he had taught her to think about herself nearly every day.  But she _knew_ that he was a stupid old man that cared for nothing but himself, _knew_ that he was wrong.  A smile tugged at her lips, and she pushed it down.  It was strange to realize that the man she hadn’t much cared for at first was actually quite similar to her. 

Cullen’s head sank into his hands.  “But the thoughts won’t _stop_ ,” he whispered, struggling to calm his voice before he looked back up.  “I thought I would have some control over my life if I stopped…”  He shot to his feet, hands balled into fists.  “How many lives depend on our success?!  I _swore_ myself to this cause…”  His voice cracked again, and he turned his back on her, bracing his hands on the desk as his shoulders hunched.

His words were unintentionally sharp, cutting Morgan to the bone with the familiarity.  How many times had she said them to herself?  Lying awake at night staring up at the tent ceiling or the roof of whatever barn they managed to find lodging in…  “Cullen… you say that like you’re alone.”

It wasn’t so much her words that made him turn, but her tone.  He had never heard her use that tone.  Soft and quiet and _scared_.  She had her head turned away from _him_ now, but there was a track shining along her cheek where a tear had escaped.  Maker’s breath, he was _stupid_.  How could he not have realized?  She would feel his weight a thousand times over!  People weren’t looking to _him_ to save the fucking world!

“I’m sorry, I—”

Morgan shook her head and rubbed at her eyes.  “Don’t be _sorry_ , Cullen,” she said earnestly.  “You’re the one down there with them, getting to know them.  _You_ have to write all the letters when our people die.  All I do is run around and close Rifts.”

“You do _so_ much more than that!” Cullen said quickly.  “I’ve seen…”  He trailed off, and a rueful smile that quickly turned sad crossed his face.  “I do not wish to give you—the Inquisition—less than I gave the Chantry.”  He swallowed.  Hard.  “I stopped taking lyrium.  But some days, I can’t…”  Once, for two days, he hadn’t been able to leave his room, the aches were so strong.  “If I’m to serve you to the best of my ability, I should be taking it…”  His voice faded out.

Oh.  Oh!  Morgan had never really _known_ Templars, even working as a smuggler.  She had made deals, not actually sold the stuff.  But she knew what it did to them.  She had seen them begging in the streets, doing horrid things for enough coin for a few hours of relief.  They no longer wanted the strength and powers it bestowed, they _needed_ it to stay fucking _alive_.  Just up and _stopping_ was…

“Cullen, if you’ve stopped—”  She cut herself off.  She couldn’t tell a man as desperate to be good as Cullen that he needed to step back from his position.  Almost immediately after she was overtaken by concern for this man so like herself.  “That can _kill_ you, can’t it?” she said softly.

“There’s always the chance it’ll just drive me completely mad,” Cullen said dryly.

“But you want to stop?”

His face darkened again.  “I should be.  I should be giving my _best_ to the Inqui—”

“This is _not_ about what the Inquisition wants!” Morgan cut in, refusing to let him continue that particular train of thought.  “Lyrium… I’ve seen addicts, people struggling to stop.  It’s ugly and it’s hard, but…  Do you want to break the hold it has on you?  Is that what _you_ want?”

It was like no one had ever actually asked him before, and he blinked at her almost owlishly.  “I want… I do not want to be bound by that life any longer,” he finally said, and it appeared to lift at least a little of the weight from his shoulders.  “But—please let me finish—I will not put the Inquisition at risk.  I have asked Cassandra to… watch me.  If withdrawal compromises my ability to lead, she will relieve me of duty.”

“This is your decision, Cullen.  I understand wanting to distance yourself from the past, and the sort of person you were then.  You’re a good man.  If you need anything…”

She was so kind…  He would admit to not knowing many dwarfs that weren’t merchants before the Inquisition.  And growing up… well, there hadn’t been any dwarfs at all, except travelers passing through.  He wondered if Morgan—the _Inquisitor_ , he reminded himself—was as unique among her fellows as she seemed, or if all dwarves were this kind and friendly, and he just hadn’t noticed.  It was unlikely, he decided.  Truly kind people were so rare.

“I thought you had a right to know,” he said, brushing off her offer of assistance.  This was something he had to do on his own.  But still, she had thought to offer…  “Thank you.  The Inquisition’s army must always take priority.  If anything should happen, I shall defer to you and Cassandra’s judgment.”

“Thank you,” Morgan echoed back.  “For trusting me with this.”  She smiled then, shy and hesitant.  They both felt the awkwardness then, having exposed very personal parts of themselves to each other.  Hinter made a quiet sound, and Morgan had her way out.  “I should make sure he gets fed.”

“Yes, of course.”  He gave her a nod, scratching the back of his neck as she hurried out the door.

Outside on the wall, Morgan sagged back against the door for a moment.  That had been an intense amount of emotion, and she felt drained.  She was halfway down the stairs when Khim appeared at the base of the steps, a frown creasing his thin lips.  Morgan rolled her eyes heavenward.  There was no helping it now.

 

000

 

Bull found Morgan later that day, bent over rows of glass tubes set in frames, with a larger glass container bubbling over a small flame.  Keeping his distance, he watched.  Wearing a slightly comical pair of goggles, and using a spoon not much bigger than the tip of her pinky, Morgan added some sort of blueish powder to the bubbling liquid.  The color changed to a violently bright orange, the steam that rose from it smelling like burnt wood.  He saw her eyes flick in his direction, and she gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

“Almost done,” she said.  She added a few drops of something red, and the bubbling eased.  She carefully put out the flame beneath the glass bottle, and used a pair of tongs to transfer the container to a clear place on the desk.  Peeling off the nearly shoulder-high leather gloves, Morgan turned to face him as she pushed the goggles up into her hair.  “Hullo, Bull.” 

He peered over her shoulder, but kept his hands at his sides.  He knew better than to fuck with alchemical stuff; it was almost as dangerous as magic.  “That the stuff you set yourself on fire with?” he asked, nodding towards the cooling beaker.

Morgan nodded.  “Yeah.”

“Definitely a good way to throw off an enemy.  They get all hung up with the part you’re on fire, and miss the part where you stab ‘em in the kidney.”  He grinned.  “It’s pretty flashy compared to your usual thing, though.”

Her half smile was nervous.  “I suppose, yeah.  But it also helps distract enemies, giving whoever I’m fighting with a better chance.  Easier to kill someone if they’re distracted by me being covered in fire.  Or ice.”

Again, putting others before herself.  Such selflessness would have been very well accepted under the Qun.  He shoved any other thoughts in that vein aside; it didn’t end well for anyone.  He shook his head, feeling a smile on his lips.  Then a thought struck him.  “If you guys can pull off tricks like this, you might be closer than we thought to making Gaatlok.” 

“Is what I’m doing really that similar?”  Morgan glanced between Bull at her work station, eyes bright and curious.  Damn, she was cute like that.

“Oh.  No, sorry, I just meant in terms of complexity,” he clarified.  “From what I’ve heard, Gaatlok keeps better than the stuff you make.  More reliable, too.”

A smirk lifted one corner of Morgan’s mouth.  “Know all about it, do you?” 

He laughed, and she stomped down on the fluttering in her chest.  “I know a little about a lot of things, Boss,” he said, and winked.  She snorted at the one eyed motion.  “Plus,” he added.  “Gaatlok isn’t really as likely to blow up in your face on its own.  Pretty important when operating a cannon.  Also, they can’t get possessed by demons.”

“Fair point,” Morgan conceded.  She pulled the goggles from her hair, and made an attempt to smooth the strands back into some form of order.  What  had come loose from the leather stood out like a halo around her head, the light from the back of the Undercroft giving the brown strands a redish glow.  “Are there any qunari who do what I do?” she asked.  She had an image of Bull charging in, wreathed in flame as he swung up his axe… terrifying.

Bull shook his head.  “Nah.  You know that crap you put on your clothes and armor, so your skin doesn’t catch fire?”  She nodded.  It made everything feel weird, but she had always been a bit picky about textures.  “Imagine trying that when you’re not wearing a shirt.”

“Oh!”  Morgan winced.  “I see your point.”

“I mean, you’re obviously careful, but I like my nipples _un_ cauterized, thanks.” 

Without thinking, Morgan wrapped her arms around her chest protectively.  “Ow!”  She shuddered.  “Yeah, let’s not talk about cauterizing nipples.”

Bull laughed, and she made a face at him, sticking out her tongue.  But she smiled, eyes crinkling the way they always had.  Had they always been that pretty?  To distract himself, he glanced at the other items on the desk.  A stack of papers caught his attention, and he leaned a bit closer.  “Plans for a sword?”  He had slid the paper out from under the brass paperweight and brought it into the light.  “Hey, this is awesome!”  His face lit up with a smile. 

Despite her best efforts, Morgan found herself blushing and staring down at her feet.  She had modeled the thing after the oversized sword she’d been given for her ‘coronation’.  But for Bull, she had made it actually functional, even though the dragon theme remained.  “It’s not done yet,” she mumbled.  “They’re still refining the dawnstone.” 

It was his turn to blink, and looked down at her.  “Dawnstone?”  A thought occurred to him.  Looking again, he realized it wasn’t just a regular sword he was looking at.  The plans were for a greatsword.  The other warriors fought with sword and shield, so he was the only one…  “Is this for me?” he asked, not quite believing it.  When had she learned that he liked dawnstone?  He’d only spoken about it to Blackwall that one time… His grin widened and her blush deepened.  “Thanks, Boss.”

“Everyone got upgraded weapons before Adamant, but there wasn’t enough of anything but iron for a weapon your size,” Morgan explained quickly.  “And that wouldn’t really have been and upgrade, so…”  She felt intensely awkward.  She didn’t him to think she was trying to make some kind of romantic gesture, but saying that it wasn’t would just make her look suspicious.  She was stuck. 

“Still, this is going to look so badass when it’s finished,” he said.  Morgan couldn’t help but look up.

Oh.  He was fucking _beaming_ , staring at her drawing while his eye damn near sparkled.  With the rays of the setting sun starting to turn gold and orange, he was bathed in the diffused light, like something out of a damn fairy tale.  The roar of the waterfall joined the rushing in her ears, heartbeat loud enough she was sure he could hear it.  The moment she realized it, she shook her head.  “So what have you been up to all day?” she asked, voice perfectly casual.

Bull noticed the quick evasion, but didn’t comment, replacing the paper carefully.  The day hadn’t exactly started out well.  “Trying a few new drills with the Chargers.  They’re going to be headed to Adamant to finish knocking the rest of it down.”

Morgan frowned.  “I know that the siege destabilized it, but…”  She sighed.  “I’d hoped it wasn’t quite that bad.”

He shrugged with an easy roll of his broad shoulders.  “The mages you sent nearly died in a few collapses, so they got what they could and got out.  Everyone’s okay though,” he finished quickly, seeing her eyes widen slightly.

“Hope the Chargers like hot weather,” she muttered.  She hoped that Krem’s binding wouldn’t be an issue in the heat…  But he was a grown man.  He could take care of himself.

“They should be fine,” Bull said confidently.  He gave a quick glance around, making sure that no one was paying attention.  “I was wondering if you had plans later.  I wanted to talk about a few things.”

Panic washed away everything else, guilt hot on its heels.  “Bull, last night…”  She bit her lip before hurrying through, voice hushed in the nearly empty undercroft.  “I’m so sorry!  I just saw the knives and Hinter and I didn’t _mean_ —”

“Hey, easy.”  He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, making her look back up.  “You’re still working to learn to control it right?” 

Morgan nodded furiously.  Unable to sleep, even after training with Khim, she had buried herself in books in the rotunda, occasionally coming up for air and tea to ask Solas questions.  He had gone over several exercises with her as well, ways to channel initial emotions of reaction into something that didn’t result in magic.  So far that just involved making the Mark burn, and _keeping_ the energy there.

“Then we’re good,” Bull said.  “It’s weird as shit, and you need to try to _not_ throw me next time.”  He saw her face fall slightly.  “Hey, I’m not used to someone so damn tiny tossing me on my ass like that.  Think of my pride!”

She couldn’t help but laugh, and some of her guilt eased.  She really, _really_ wanted to believe that she hadn’t scared him.  Taking another breath, she shook her head, coming back with a full force smile.  “I’m so _very_ sorry,” she said, laying a hand over her heat.  “I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”

Bull eyed her with a falsely critical stare.  “Hmm, I suppose I can accept such a magnanimous gesture.”

Morgan put on her best Ferelden noble accent.  “Thank you, kind sir.”

He rolled his eyes, but smiled.  “So… your place or mine?”  He was teasing a bit much, but she was so damn cute when she got all flustered.

There went that stupid fucking blush again; she really was going to have to work on that.  But she smiled, speaking softly while she busied herself with cleaning up and organizing her work station.  “It’d probably be easier for me to sneak into your room than you into mine, given the _giant gaping hole_ in your roof.”

“Hey, I’ve got a tarp over it now,” Bull sniffed.  He let his hand brush the back of her arm.  “See you later, Boss.”

Morgan shivered.  “Nice talking with you, Bull.”

 

000

 

Even though she was well aware of practicality, it still ate at Morgan that she had to sneak about to be with Bull.  Clinging to the shadows, she crossed the castle easily enough, and scaling the roof of the Herald’s Rest was quite simple.  But it was _her_ damn castle, and she wanted to fuck who she wanted without running around in the dark.  Granted, there was a thrill to the secrecy, something just for herself, which she didn’t have to share with anyone else.  So much of her life was public now, that it gave her a ridiculous amount of joy to have something that was just _hers_.  She paused, staring down at the tarp that kept the weather out of Bull’s room. 

She used her belt knife to pry up some of the nails, lifting back just enough tarp to peer through.  The room was lit below, and the floor had been cleared, so she opened it a bit more and dropped down.  Bull was sitting with his back to her when she landed, making sure to bend her knees to lessen the impact on her joints.  He was sharpening his axe, and Morgan paused a moment to watch the way the muscles in his back shifted with the movement of his arm.  It was almost disappointing when he stopped, leaning the axe against the wall in the corner.  He straightened with a soft grunt, turning to face her. 

As he came around the side of the bed and walked towards her, Morgan suddenly felt very small, swallowing hard as heat began to curl in her belly.  He stopped just out of arm’s reach, giving himself a moment to look her over.  She was wearing an undyed cotton tunic, belted at the waist with a wide sash, and green leggings tucked into soft leather boots.  He smiled, then motioned for her to follow him with a jerk of his head.  As she followed, she took a moment to look around his room.

There wasn’t much there.  A bed with plain blankets was pushed into one corner, a rickety book case on one side and a small table on the other.  The desk on the opposite wall seemed to double as a table, as there were two plates and a mug stacked on top of a scattering of papers.  Some part of her mind realized that this was probably where he wrote his reports, the ones he sent back to the Ben-Hassrath.  But that thought slipped away when she came to the edge of _Bull’s bed_.  He sat down on the edge without ceremony, and she realized he had poured a small glass of wine.  As she sat down, he offered it, and she took it with a smile.

“Figured we should go over a few things,” he said, turning a bit to make facing her easier.  “We set up a watchword, but that’s pretty general.  If we’re going to do this,” he made a gesture between the two of them, “we’ll need to go over specifics.”

 _“Oh, sweet Maker…”_   Morgan took a sip of the wine, and realized that it was one of her favorites.  He was right, of course, but her stomach still fluttered.  Still, she pushed through it.  “You’re talking about hard limits, right?”  The terminology was familiar to her, even if she hadn’t had a partner she trusted enough for such activities in a long time.

Bull nodded, as if he’d had this conversation a thousand times.  Morgan supposed it was possible.  “There’s a lot I’d like to show you, but I’m not going into this blind.”  The casual, easy smile left his face.  “I need to know the things that you absolutely do not want, so I don’t stumble into one of them on accident.”  He took a breath.  “You trust me, and I know that’s not an easy thing for you.  So I will not, under _any_ circumstances, betray that trust.”

Morgan was starting to wonder if she should see a healer, the way her heart kept jumping.  No one had ever been much concerned with her trust.  Sh’vara and Asala had said they were her friends either way, and her trust had come over years.  But Bull… her trust _mattered_ to him; he knew the weight it carried.  She supposed it might matter to Cassandra as well, but…  Her smile returned, soft and warm.  “Thank you, Bull.”  Then she straightened.  “You know that your trust matters to me, too, right?”  Her eyes lowered.  “I mean …  I know you have to report back, and… And, Maker, I’m shit at this.”  She shook her head and looked back up.  “I want to know yours, too.  Hard limits, I mean.” 

The moment of surprise was as brief as a spark off struck flint, but Morgan saw it all the same.  Most people looked at him and assumed he didn’t care, that he _had_ no limits, that he’d do _anything_.  If he was honest, there wasn’t a whole lot that really bothered him.  But Morgan cared enough to ask.  That was… good.  “Blood or knife play,” he finally said.  “Sometimes people bite or scratch too hard, and that’s fine, but nothing on purpose.”

Morgan nodded her understanding immediately.  It made sense, considering the sort of mages he probably fought against in…  She shoved the thoughts away, not wanting to bring such things into a _good_ place, where they had no right to be.  “Alright,” she said, and asked no questions, sipping at the wine.  “Anything else?”

He gave a large shrug of his shoulders.  “Not particularly, and this _is_ mostly about you.”

 _That_ made her frown.  She pushed off the bed, setting the wine down on the shelf before returning to her seat.  Bull met her eyes easily.  “Bull, as much as I really, _really_ appreciate how… attentive you are, I do _not_ want this to be just about me.  I don’t want to do anything that you won’t enjoy.  Even if I liked it, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it if I knew it made you uncomfortable.”  She took another breath, and it caught.  When had her throat gotten so tight?  “If we do this, I want you to, well, have fun, too.”

Bull had seen her without her mask before, and knew when she wasn’t trying to put on a show.  He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her quite this exposed.  How did a person go through a life like hers and still manage to be so concerned about the wellbeing of other people?  She wasn’t endlessly forgiving, and had her limits, but she _cared_ so fucking much.  He thought of the scars on her back, and the ink deliberately painted over them.  A gesture towards trying to move on?  Lifting a hand, he stroked her back gently, feeling her lean into the touch.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said.  “The sex part, I’m always going to enjoy.  And hurting you the way you like…”  A growl edged his voice, tone dropping and making Morgan shiver.  “That _really_ does it for me.” 

“That’s… good,” she managed, smiling through her awkwardness.

“I would like to ask a question though.”  His touch on her back shifted, purposefully tracing the line of one of the scars.  She stiffened, yanked back to attention.  His hand felt away instantly.  “Yeah, that.  You okay with me asking?”  Before she could speak, he added quickly, “I’m not going to ask how that happened.  You share that or don’t, it’s up to you.”

With her heart suddenly in her throat, all Morgan could do was nod, so she took a moment to breathe, focusing on the feel of her ribs expanding with each intake of air.  “I can tell you,” she murmured.  “It will definitely ruin what’s left of the mood.”

Bull snorted.  “I figured it would.  That’s why there was wine.”  He retrieved the glass and put it back in her hands.  “I’m not trying to get you sloshed, but I figured it might help a little.”

Morgan stared at the red liquid for a moment.  How long had it been since she told this story?  Only her mother knew the whole of it.  She drained the cup in two swift gulps, hands tight around the glass as she lowered it to her lap.  Might as well dive right in.  “They tried to make my mother a whore,” she said.  She felt Bull’s hand shift behind her, fingers curling into a fist as he pulled it back to his side.  His face was carefully set in a neutral expression, watching her with the appearance of calm.  “A few of my deals fell through.  They thought that if I knew my mother was suffering, I’d work harder.  Do _better_.”  Her words were stiff, voice tight, but it still felt good to let it out.

“I take it you didn’t react the way they planned,” Bull said gently.

Her laugh was dry and sharp.  “Definitely not.  I was at home when they tried to take her.”  Another breath, slow and deep.  “I killed them.  Three of them.  Right there in the living room.  I don’t…  I still don’t really remember how.  I just know I came back to myself with a bloody cleaver in my hand and three dead enforcers on the floor.”  She lifted a hand and touched the side of her face, remembering the broken jaw and cracked eye socket.  “Whatever happened, I got the shit kicked out of me in the process.  They didn’t touch her again, but I had to be… disciplined.”

Bull kept his anger down, a white hot knot in his chest, trying to burn its way out.  Morgan hadn’t looked at him since she started speaking, eyes firmly rooted on the empty glass she still clutched in her hands.  His mind burned with the question of _‘who?’_ , but he forced himself to remain silent.  He had a pretty good idea of who anyways.  It was up to her if she wanted to tell him.

“Aunty did it herself,” Morgan finally said, her exhale shaky.

“You sure you don’t want me to just toss her off a balcony when she gets here?” Bull offered, casual as could be.  The image of this ‘Aunty’ splattered all over the mountains was suddenly very appealing.

Morgan resisted the urge to lean into his warmth, and instead smiled up at him.  “As satisfying as that might be, I’m going to have to say no.”

He made a show of rolling his eyes.  “Fine, fine.  You’re the boss, Boss.”

Another smile, and this time it reached her eyes.  She took a breath, and felt the tightness in her chest loosen a little.  “You can ask your questions now, if you like,” she said.

“I was wondering how you wanted me to address the area,” Bull said.  “Do you know what a flogger is?”

He changed gears so easily, accepting her story and asking no more of her.  The pain eased a little more.  “Think so.  It looks like a giant leather tassel on a handle, right?”

“Never heard it described _quite_ like that, but yeah,” Bull chuckled.  “It’s something I think you might enjoy, and I wanted to know if your back would off limits.”

Morgan was glad that she could give him a proper answer.  “I don’t think it would, actually.  I’ve… _tried_ a few things.  Floggers spread the impact out, and that never bothered me.  It’s sharp, direct points of impact that I… _really_ don’t like.”

“So no riding crops.”

The blush returned, and she rolled her eyes, smiling in earnest now.  “Now, I didn’t say _that_.  Just keep it below the waist.  Granted, I’m not exactly…”  She searched for the word.  “I haven’t done play like that often, so there might be limits I don’t know about yet.”

“Fair enough,” Bull said with a nod.  “You don’t seem to mind restraints either.”  The grin that followed his words went straight down her spine, rekindling the heat that had previously sputtered out. 

“No, I don’t,” she mumbled.

Bull stroked the backs of his knuckles down her arm.  “I think you’d look amazing with your arms tied behind your back with red rope… maybe with something to keep your legs spread for me.”  He spoke slowly, as if taking his time to picture the image in great detail.  “Or I could just tie your arms and legs to the bedposts…”  He chuckled at that, watching her squirm where she sat.

“You’re a fucking _menace_ ,” Morgan mumbled hotly.  The wine had fuzzed the edges of her mind just enough she didn’t feel like bothering with a mask.  “How the fuck did you manage to get the mood back from me talking about killing people in my mother’s sitting room?”  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his grin widen and turn smug.

“It’s a talent,” he said proudly. 

Nervous laughter rolled out of her, her eyes crinkling as she smiled.  It was a huge sort of relief, to have someone know and be willing to understand.  Bull didn’t ignore that part of her, he accepted it and held it as close as the rest of her.  It was part of her, not to be shunned or ignored, even in its ugliness.  She felt her throat tighten again, something oddly familiar weaving in among the fluttering in her chest.  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that it was dangerous, to let a person get this close.  Even if you trusted them, if you a let a person in this much…  _Feelings_ weren’t allowed.  Bull was her _friend_ , nothing more.

Sliding her feet to the floor, Morgan stood, walking slowly to the bedside table and setting the cup down.  When she turned back, her eyes glittered while she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.  “I know you were just planning on talking, but…”  She edged forward, putting herself within arm’s reach. 

Bull reached out, settling her hands on her hips and dragging her close.  When his mouth covered hers, she tasted of wine.  He let the kiss drag out, stroking her tongue with his.  Her arms slid around his neck, nimble fingers tracing the shell of one pointed ear.  He let the lazy kiss continue, one hand rising up her back, kneading away what little tension remained between her shoulders.  He loved the way she just melted against him, letting him take her weight, surrendering everything.  The tip of his nose dragged along her jaw before he buried his face in her neck, letting out a sigh.

In the face of such tenderness, the weight of the day finally crashed down on her.  Morgan’s shoulders sagged, and her head bent forward.  She just wanted to curl into a ball and _hide_.  She had faced so many demons and monsters, but grizzled old dwarf woman was what made her want to run.  Bull felt her hunching in, and lifted his head, tilting her chin up to get a proper look at his face.  He was so close, and the worry on his face was so plain that Morgan flinched away.  He let her, his hold loose and ready to drop away.

“I can still throw her bony ass off the tower,” he offered, and sounded so completely serious that it _hurt_.  He meant it.  He was willing to hurt the woman that had hurt her just on principle and that was terrifying.  No one but her mother had ever cared for her so much.  Only Mari had…

“Fuck!” 

She _wanted_ the closeness she had with Bull.  She _wanted_ the tenderness he gave her when she faltered, when she needed reassurance.  But all of it was a reminder of the sweet memories she had before Mari had tried to kill her.  She took a step back, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.  When she opened her eyes again, Bull was watching her patiently, waiting to see if she was ready.  She knew he wouldn’t make her explain, and might even let her just run without an explanation.  But she owed him more than that.

“Sorry, I’m…”  Another breath, and he continued to wait.  “I _like_ being all cuddly.  It’s good.”  She met his eyes so that he knew she meant it.  “But the last person that I was like that with…”

“Tried to kill you,” Bull supplied.  He made no move to reach out, to collect her back to him.  His willingness to listen was almost painfully sweet.

“Not just that,” Morgan whispered.  “I _loved_ her.”  It took saying the words out loud that she was ashamed.  “I missed all the signs that something was wrong because I _loved_ her.”  It felt so _stupid_.  Bull _wasn’t_ Mari.  He’d had so many chances to kill her if he’d wanted.  He hadn’t.  He’d _helped_.

“We don’t have to do that part, you know,” Bull said.  “If you want it light and casual, that’s fine with me.  You can just come to me when you need to hand control over to someone else for a while.”  It was _fine_ if she didn’t want to cuddle and laugh, he told himself. 

Morgan fought the urge to stamp her foot.  “No,” she said firmly.  “I mean, casual, yes, but…”  She sighed in frustration and dragged a hand through her hair.  “I like being able to laugh with you, and complain about nobles.  And being able to do that without the rest of the Inquisition hanging around, it’s… it’s nice.”  She looked up at him and gave a half-hearted shrug.  “I’m really fucking broken, Bull, I’m sorry.”

The softness dropped from his face, expression hardening so quickly it was very nearly frightening.  “You are _not_ broken,” he said, voice very nearly a growl.  “You’re _not_ some fucking object that can be tossed aside just because it’s a little different.  You might not work the same as other people, but you are _not_ worth any less.”  Something in him ached, and he fought the urge to reach out, to offer comfort.  He met her eyes squarely, his eye hard.  “You are _not_ broken, Morgan.”

She stared at him like he had sprouted a second head, blinking dumbly.  “You… You really think that, don’t you?” she finally said.  He had to be lying… It was always a lie, even if meant kindly, but…  There was nothing but honesty on Bull’s face.

Bull snorted.  “I _know_ it.”

Was it bad, that it had never occurred to her that she might not be broken?  That she might just not work like everyone else?  It was nice to know that someone thought that of her, and she smiled.  She was so lucky to have met him.  Taking a breath, she sat back down.  “You said that there were things that you wanted to try,” she said, nudging the side of his leg with her foot.  “Can I ask what they might be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there'll be more smut soon!


	21. To Rest in the Warmest Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT AHOY! I told you guys that I'd make good on my kinkier tags. Also some fluff close to the end.

To Rest in the Warmest Places:

 

The day had not been even the smallest bit enjoyable. It had been raining since early morning, the sky stubbornly remaining about the color of beaten lead.  Thunder rolled in the distance, and never once did even a sliver of sun find its way through the clouds.  The morning was spent, as per usual, in the War Room with Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana.  Afterwards, Morgan and Sera spent the morning hiding from Khim, who didn’t see pouring rain as a viable excuse not to run around the training yard until your boots were soaked through and caked with mud.

It didn’t get better. Morgan knew that if she were to pass judgement on Erimond now, she would probably just slice his throat right there in the great hall.  Josephine had said that, despite his crimes, this was not an acceptable response.  Word had arrived from the Magisterium, stripping him of all titles and power and turning him completely over to the Inquisition, to do with as they saw fit.  As far as Morgan was concerned, he wasn’t fit to muck stables.  She had already made her decision.  What was one more life, anyways?

Then Hinter had gotten into a fight. A visiting lord had brought several of his best hunting dogs—tall, redish-brown things with long ears and loose jowls—and they had gone after one of the harts that was still in training.  The moment Hinter had seen the other dogs in the paddock, he’d crawled under the gate and put himself between them and the hart.  Despite being smaller than Hinter, the bloodhounds had outnumbered him, and when the mabari-mutt got in the way, they attacked.  It had taken Morgan, Dennet, and two of the kennel master’s helpers to pull the animals apart.

Once Morgan was certain that Hinter’s injuries were superficial, she had shouted at the visiting dignitary about proper animal training until her voice was hoarse. Not once did it stop raining.  So when she found the note from Bull at her station in the Undercroft, she felt as if a literal weight had been lifted from her shoulders.  Just knowing that he was going to be waiting for her was enough to make the last tasks of the day easier.  Her mother was leaving the Free Marches, and Leliana’s scouts put Dorothea two days away.

Making sure that Hinter was comfortable—Sera had made him a nest of blankets in her little room in the tavern—Morgan retreated across the hall to her own room rooms. She had had keys made for her advisors, and had slipped an extra one to Bull.  With Willen succeeding in breaking into her rooms, extra measures had been taken.  A person could indeed get a copy of the key if they tried hard enough, but without the specific rune-work by Dagna, the only thing they would get was a nasty burn.

 A small loop of red thread hung from the handle of the second door, the door itself left slightly ajar.  Morgan plucked up the thread, the strands soft between her fingers.  Bull’s comments about red rope rose instantly to her mind, and heat began in her chest, rolling down her spine to coil in her belly.  Taking one last breath and feeling a smile start to form, she pulled the door open.  Bits and pieces of the day sluffed off her as she moved over the threshold, closing the door and locking it behind her. 

Coming up the stairs, she saw the shadow of his horns against the wall, and when she reached the top, found him reclining on the sofa. There was a sack on the cushion beside him.  A smile split his face when their eyes met, and he stood.  Despite spending nearly every day with him, Morgan would sometimes forget just how much bigger than her he was.  She was _used_ to feeling smaller than nearly everyone else.  But it was a different sort of feeling with Bull. With him, his height and size wasn’t a threat, but it still intimidated her.  The kind of intimidation that went straight to her core, and settled between her legs like a glowing ember.

Bull made sure she knew he was staring, letting his eye travel over her slowly, a hungry sort of grin curving his lips. It didn’t matter that he’d seen her naked or had his face between her legs before; that look still made her blush and shiver, heart instantly going a mile a minute in her chest.  Bull’s every action seemed calculated to elicit the most intense reaction, striking right at the heart of her and what she needed.

When his eye came back to her face his expression had a wolfish edge to it. “Take off your clothes,” he said quietly.  “Then sit on the edge of the bed with your back facing the room.”  The tone of his voice made Morgan certain that he expected to be obeyed, and that he knew she would comply.

It was so blessedly easy. Her nimble fingers plucked open her vest, and shucked away the loose cotton tunic underneath.  She didn’t look away from him as she unlaced her stay, and the appreciative little sound he made when it too fell to the floor made her chest tighten in surprised pleasure.  Partners had complimented her before, of course, but Bull didn’t just _say_ that he liked things about her body.  He _showed_ her.  She had to break his gaze as she worked her breeches and smalls down over her wide hips and thighs, kicking the garment aside along with her boots. 

She met his eyes for a moment when she straightened, and had to take a shuddering breath in an effort to calm her racing heart. Bull tilted his head in the direction of her bed.  “Go on.”

Fighting down a purely nervous laugh, Morgan padded silently across the stone floor, toes quickly chilling. But the fire was banked, and there was warmth to the room, though not enough that her nipples didn’t tingle and harden.  She heard Bull moving behind her, and the soft click as he removed his ankle-brace and harness.  It was an effort of will not to pause and look back, wondering if he was taking _everything_ off.  But she did as she was told, crouching on folded knees at the foot of the bed, her back facing the room.

As Bull came up behind her, he saw her shiver slightly, and heard the quick intake of breath as he brushed a hand along the back of her neck. He couldn’t help but smile.  Her high bed put her shoulders level with his pectorals, making what he had in mind much easier.  He plucked the tie from her hair and tucked it into his pocket.  Morgan let out a quiet noise as his fingers slid through her now shoulder-length hair, smoothing out the tangles. 

His hand moved down from the back of her neck to trace what she knew to be the arrow tattooed along her spine. She took in a breath, and he paused, almost pulling his hand away.  “It’s alright,” she said quietly.  “I don’t… I don’t mind you touching.”  She realized she meant it, too, and couldn’t help but smile.

Bull’s hand flattened then, drawing his rough palm down her back, sweeping to the side to cup the curve of her hip. Then he moved back up, his touch feather light.  He felt the hitch in her breathing and leaned down, breath puffing softly against the side of her neck.  The bite he had given her the first night back was still there, healed over and scabbed, the surrounding bruises going a mottled greenish-yellow.  It stirred something in him to see it there, lasting longer than any other sort of ‘love bite’.

“Have I mentioned how pretty you look all marked up?” he murmured, voice edging closer to a growl. The heat in her lower belly pulsed, and Morgan’s hands curled into fists where they rested on her thighs.  His finger lifted to trace the side of her neck, past where her collar usually sat.  “I wonder what people would say,” he murmured, leaning in and letting his fingers curl gently around the front of her throat, “if they could see this?  Their precious leader willingly wearing the marks of a qunari savage?”

Morgan wasn’t sure _why_ the words cut her as sharply as they did, but her heart continued to pound, and her ears burned.  He wasn’t a savage, and he knew she didn’t see him that way.  But the _idea_ of it, of others knowing what they did together and what they might think…  A quiet sound escaped her, little more than a whimper, and Bull chuckled darkly in her ear.  “I’m going to have fun with that.”  Morgan bit back a groaning whimper, and ended up making another quiet, plaintive sound.  His hands slid up the side of her arms, fire following in the wake of his touch.  “But not tonight.”

His fingers curled around her arms, drawing back down and pulling them slowly, gently behind her back. She didn’t protest, making her body relaxed and limp.  But she didn’t feel the touch of rope or any restraint.  He pulled her arms behind her just enough to show his intent before he released them again.  Morgan let them hang at her sides, waiting.  It had been years since she trusted someone else to bind her with anything more than a silk scarf around her wrists.  Again, his hand slid up her back, following the lines of scars with a touch that was solid, not shying away from the marks, not flinching back in revulsion.

She took a slow, shuddering breath, and her eyes fell closed. Her head dropped forward, shoulders loose.  “Do you remember the watchword?” he asked.

Morgan nodded.

“No, I want you to say it.”

“Katoh,” she said without thinking. It was so easy to obey him, to just do exactly as that low, rough voice commanded. 

“Good girl.” He smiled, stepping back just enough to lift the bag he’d brought with him onto the bed beside her.  He saw her head turn ever so slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever he had brought with him.  “You can look,” he said, and she slowly turned her head.  Bull drew out a long coil of crimson rope.  It was soft cotton, the ends clamped to keep from fraying.  Leaning forward, Bull pressed his chest to her back, arms coming around her as he drew a length of the rope across her thighs.  “I was right,” he murmured in her ear.  “You do look good in red.”

And she really did. The deep crimson was such a lovely contrast to her pale skin, too bright to be blood colored, but dark enough so as not to be orange.  It almost made her look like one of those fancy porcelain dolls.  But she was so far from delicate that the comparison didn’t even come close.  Morgan was quite certain that her cheeks would soon be the same color as the rope.  She relaxed back into the warmth of his chest, relishing in the feeling of his arms around her. 

It was actually kind of amazing, how easily she relaxed around him. She carried all her tension in her shoulders and neck.  But the moment he had leaned in close, giving her skin-to-skin contact, the tension had begun to flow away from her.  Normally, with someone as lightly experienced as she was, he would have wanted to take longer relaxing her.  He moved away from her, lifting a hand to her hair.  Before Morgan could toss him a petulant look at the loss of contact, the hand in her hair became a fist, yanking her head back for Bull to kiss.  He took full advantage of her gasp of surprise, pressing a demanding kiss to her lips, tongue sliding past to dance with hers.

He kissed her breathless, nipping at her lips as they parted. “I’m going to tie your arms behind your back and use you as I please.”  Morgan was now certain that he knew _exactly_ how his voice affected her.  Deep and rumbling, with an almost feral edge to it.  She was completely at his mercy.  All her power meant nothing here, and Maker, it felt good.  His nose traced the shell of her ear, breath fanning her neck and making her shiver.

“Do you remember what I told you?” Recalling their conversation the previous night, Morgan nodded.  “Good.  Tell me.”

She had to swallow and take a breath before she was able to speak. When she did, her voice was soft and breathy.  “If anything feels too tight, starts to tingle or go numb, tell you _immediately_.  I can use the watchword at any time, and you’ll get me out quickly.”  Repeating the words was reassuring, but her heart still pounded with anticipation.  “I’m safe here.”

Behind her, Bull smiled. She wasn’t just parroting the last words back at him, she really believed them.  Again, it was humbling to know that he had earned her trust.  It was still sometimes a wonder to him, how she had decided that _he_ was the one she would let past all the walls she had built up around herself.  “Are you ready?” he murmured, drawing the rope back across her thighs to hold in his hands at her back.  She nodded once.  “No.  No non-verbal answers.”  He stroked his fingers down the sensitive inside of her forearm.  “Are you ready?” he repeated.

Oh _fuck_ yes.  Again she nodded.  “Yes, please,” she said.

“Good.” He took another step back, giving himself room.  Draping the rope over one shoulder, he brought her arms behind her, guiding her to grasp her own forearms.  Slowly, he drew several loops around her touching wrists.  Then he drew the tail up over her right shoulder, bringing it across her chest above her breasts.  The smooth cotton slid across her bare skin, just rough enough to tickle her skin, but not so rough as to be abrasive.  The rope came down under the opposite arm and through the loops at her wrists, Bull’s hand following the path of the cord, fingers settling the rope exactly where he wanted it.  The contrast was as perfect as he’d hoped, and he was already looking forward to tying her with more intricate details.

“Breath slowly,” he instructed, bringing the rope over her left shoulder now, crossing it the opposite way across her chest. “Focus on how the rope feels, the drag on your skin, how it tightens and holds you.” 

The breath she let out shook, excitement and adrenaline coursing in her veins. As warm and relaxed as his presence was, her skin felt electrified, reacting to each shift and tug of the rope.  Again he pulled it through the ties at her wrist, this time bringing it around her left bicep, then back through and over to the other side.  Bull waited for an exhale before he slid it around under her breasts, unable to resist brushing her nipples with the pad of his thumb, and chuckling as she jerked.  He finished the simple harness at her wrists, tucking in the ends and moving back to survey his work.

The lamp and firelight gave her pale, pinkish skin a golden sort of glow, the red of the bindings standing out perfectly. He had tied her gently, moving in time with her breathing to ensure her comfort.  She was already half breathless, and he knew that if viewed from the front, the flush on her cheek would have crept its way down to her heavy breasts.  Reaching out, he lifted and turned her, sitting her on the edge of the bed and letting her legs dangle down.  Her eyes had fallen closed, lips slightly parted.  He cupped the side of her face, and she nuzzled into his palm.  He pressed his thumb past her lips, hooking in her jaw and forcing her mouth open.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Morgan’s eyes fluttered open, dark and hungry. The fire painted his face in flickering golden light and dark shadow, something instinctual in her reacting with fear.  His thumb still holding her mouth open, Bull gave himself a moment to survey the other side of his work.  He lifted a breast in his hand, still in slight wonder and just how easily it filled his palm and fingers.  He squeezed, gently, his other hand drawing up her thigh.  Without even a word of encouragement, Morgan’s legs parted, offering him access.

He could smell her already, the intensity of her arousal almost heady. He caught a nipple sharply between two fingers, smirking as she gasped.  He pinched, and Morgan had to squeeze her eyes shut, squirming on the edge of the bed as her cunt ached.  Releasing her jaw, Bull grabbed her thigh, blunt fingers digging into the tender flesh.  His thumb was mere inches away from her cunt, and she fought the urge to buck forwards. 

He gave her no warning, lifting her by the waist and tossing her back onto the bed. Morgan toppled backwards, unable to catch herself.  The rope shifted and tightened as she settled onto her back, craning her head up to watch Bull.  She fought the urge to press her legs together under his hungry stare, feeling very much like a rabbit caught in the sights of a mountain lion.  Not once did he take his eyes off her as he undid his belt and kicked away his boots.  When he climbed onto the bed, he was as naked as she was.  Crawling between her legs, Morgan spread them around him without question.  His mouth came over hers, hard and demanding, giving her nothing and taking everything for himself.  It was perfect. 

With a parting growl, Bull sat back and flipped her, dragging her ass up into the air as her face pressed down into the bed. He spread her open with his thumbs, giving a low growl of approval as she trembled.  Without warning, he dipped one thick finger inside her, feeling her body clench in accompaniment with her sudden gasp.  “I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already dripping for me.”  He sounded so damn smug that she couldn’t help but squirm, half trying to pull herself away. 

Bull grabbed the rope that bound her wrists, yanking her back. “No.  You’re mine tonight.  Unless you say the word, I’m not stopping.”  Each word was sharp and harsh, but there was still the reminder that she could end this at any time.  She whimpered, but said nothing.  “Good girl.”  He stroked his hands over her ass and thighs, his palms warm and rough.  Morgan was briefly aware of one hand leaving, and Bull shifting behind her.

Leather slapped across the top of one thigh, her whole body jerking as pain burned against her skin. Almost instantly, Bull’s warm, rough hand stroked over the spot.  The quickness of the touch was maddening, comforting for only a moment before the leather found her again.  Morgan yelped aloud this time, fighting not to squirm away.  The pain was sharp and hot, blood rushing to the abused skin.  Bull hummed approvingly as the skin began to redden, smoothing his hand over it.  “You mark up so nicely,” he rumbled.  He struck her again, this time across the cheek of her ass.  Twice more he struck her before his hand soothed over the welts.

Each touch shifted her, making the rope press and pull at her skin, drawing her attention back again and again. Every time his fingers came close to her sex, she would press herself back, hoping for some kind of release.  But each touch was feather light, just barely touching her outer lips before moving away.  He began a rhythm, striping the leather over her thighs and ass, watching her jerk with each impact.  With her head turned to the side, he could see her face.  Despite the wet lashes, her lips were half parted, breath rapid and gasping. 

Each lash was bright and painful, as if trying to coax the watchword from her lips by inches. But whenever it bordered on too much, his fingers would trace her inner thighs, spreading her cheeks open to stare and how wet she was.  Unable to help himself, he drug a finger along her slit, finding her clit swollen and sensitive.  Morgan jerked when he touched it, and he laughed. 

The warmth of his body seemed to radiate over her, making it impossible to forget or ignore his presence. She knew he was naked, but he never let the lower half of his body touch her.  She _knew_ that his cock was close; all he would have to do was grab her by the hips and pull her back…  But he had no intention of giving her what she wanted so quickly.  Leaning over her, he kissed up her spine, letting her tremble in just the heat of him before he let his chest touch her back.

His legs fit against hers, the heat of his skin maddening against the rising welts on her ass and thighs. She squirmed, sucking in a breath when the weight of his cock settled against her.  Grabbing a handful of her hair, Bull pulled her head to the side, exposing her unmarked shoulder.  His teeth pinched the skin sharply enough that she cried out, trying to squirm away.  But then his hand was between her legs, plucking at her swollen clit.  His mouth was anything but gentle, a feral reminder of who she belonged to.  But his hand…

Maker, he touched her so softly, almost tenderly. It was slow and gentle, drawing feather-light circles around the cluster of nerves while his sharp teeth worried her shoulder.  Over and over he bit her, sometimes just enough to pinch, and sucking dark, heavy marks into her skin with others.  She felt the heat of his cock brush her inner thighs, and tried to squeeze them together around him.  But he just laughed again, hand leaving her clit to pinch and roll a nipple between his fingers.  The pain was the sweetest agony, making her eyes burn with tears but still going straight to her cunt, making her shudder and clench.

Slowly, he drew back to survey his work, tracing the reddened marks on her neck, a few of them faintly outlined by the imprints of his teeth. He gave her a moment while he stared, drinking in the sight of her.  The smell of her was nearly overpowering now, filling the air.  Leaning down, he kissed the back of her neck.  He kissed slowly down her spine until he met her bound wrists, easing himself down behind her.  As his hands cupped her ass and then spread her open, Morgan squirmed, trying to lift her head and get a look at him.

Bull let his breath puff against the raised, pink welts on the cheeks of her ass, the soft kisses he gave her both soothing and painful. But the slow pace gave her time to breathe, to try to get back some semblance of control.  His mouth kissed down one of her thighs, dragging his hot tongue over a particularly angry welt.  The pad of his thumb brushed the pucker of her ass, and she half jerked in surprise.  But when she didn’t use the word, Bull ignored it, just barely teasing with the pressure of his thumb.  He slapped her ass once, making her half choke on the cry as the welts lit up with fresh pain. 

At the same moment, he slid two fingers inside her, her cry choking off into some other sound, pain twisting around the pleasure as he _finally_ pushed something into her.  Her body clenched down, and she whimpered in relief.  Bull felt her start to writhe as he licked and nibbled the crease of her thigh, fingers pumping slowly.  As she relaxed into the welcome motion, he kissed back up, biting down once just to hear her cry out.  Last night, they had talked for hours, and he had drawn his answers out of her with only a small amount of blushing and swearing.

Fingers still inside her, Bull sat up, reaching once more to the sat he’d laid beside her on the bed. Morgan heard the pop of a cork and then shivered as cool liquid rolled past her tailbone.  Bull curled his fingers against that spot inside her, at the same time as one of his fingers began to circle her ass.  The oil was thick and slippery, and Bull let Morgan have a moment to understand what he was doing.  Morgan exhaled slowly and gave a small nod.  It felt so good to just give over her body to Bull, to just let him _use_ her.  There was no room for anything else when he was in charge.

With her body already full of adrenaline and arousal, the slow press of one blunt finger into her ass wasn’t painful. The stretch was strange and unfamiliar, but it didn’t hurt.  It helped that he went slow, well aware of how large his fingers would be for her. So his two hands moved in tandem, fingers pumping slowly in her cunt, and the other working the oiled finger deeper into her ass.  Morgan forced herself not to bite her lip, afraid of drawing blood as the two sensations twisted around each other.  The stretch was different, and she had to focus hard on her breathing to keep herself from tensing up.

“You’re being so good,” Bull murmured. He worked his finger deeper, past the first knuckle.  “I bet I could train you to take my cock here, too.” 

She squirmed out of reflex as his words worked under her skin, and found the slick shift in her ass more pleasant than she remembered. His fingers left her cunt in favor of trapping her clit between them.  His finger drew back, only to add more oil, and then pressed in again, deeper.  Her hips rocked back, testing and curious.  A thought occurred to him, and a wicked grin split his scared face.  He leaned across her, her hands trying to touch his chest.  He rubbed his fingers in circles over her clit, putting his mouth beside her ear.

“Or maybe, I’ll let Cullen take your ass while I have you _here_.”  His fingers slipped back into her cunt in time to feel her clamp down, whimpering her embarrassment into the blankets.

“You are a _horrible_ man,” she muttered, voice muffled and breathless.  Slowly but surely, he was urging her towards climax, teasing her with unfamiliar sensations along the way.

“Not my fault you’ve got a dirty mind,” he growled, somehow making it sound like a compliment. He started to work a second finger into her ass, and she bit back a curse, trapped between the sharp stretch behind, and the soft, delicious slide of his fingers on her clit.  “You’re so good at taking what I give you,” he praised, and she did her best to rock into his hands, to match the motions of his fingers.  None of her lovers had ever praised her quite like he did, not with the same edge to their voices, nor with the same sure hands that seemed to read and react to every minute shudder or shift in her body.

He was good at listening, too. Each little hitch in her breathing, or quite whimper as her muscles tightened and relaxed, inching her towards climax.  The whole of her body began to tremble, rubbing against her bindings.  Her shoulders ached at the unfamiliar position, but nothing tingled, nothing truly hurt.  She could feel heat coiling in her belly, winding tighter and tighter.  Her hips began to rock backwards, grinding herself into Bull’s fingers.  He bit her neck, closing his teeth gently over the older, scabbed over mark. 

When Morgan felt apart, it was like glass shattering in slow motion. The world seemed to simply drop away, heat rolling through her.  It stretched out to her toes, wrapping her in overwhelming sensation.  The pain of his teeth on her healing shoulder didn’t interrupt, but rather wove itself in, rocking through her body as she let out a reedy wail.  It took time to come down, body trembling with the rhythmic contractions.  Bull’s hands left her, squeezing her trembling thighs as he sucked at her neck, ensuring the need for a scarf for at least the next few days.

When the falling ended, Morgan’s breath was ragged, hair sticking in small curls to her damp brow. She had only just regained mastery of her eyelids when Bull’s hands anchored at her hips, his knees kicking her thighs wide.  He had already slicked himself with oil, and pushed his hips forward, dragging her back onto his cock.  Nerves that had only just settled were violently reawakened, and Morgan cried out.  Bull grabbed her by the ropes that looped over her shoulders, using them as a handle to move her. 

What had been soft gasps turned to unrepentant cries, Bull moving in her without any kind of mercy. The hand on her hip squeezed and scraped over the welts, making sure she couldn’t forget.  It stung and burned, but it felt so good to _finally_ have him inside her.  She tried to move with him, but the ropes gave him the perfect way to move and control her.  So she surrendered.  She let the storm of him crash over her again and again, driving every other thought from her mind.  As certain as the moons in the sky, she would ache in the morning, but it would be a reminder. 

Bull knew that she wasn’t expecting more, which was exactly why he gave it to her. With her cunt stretched full, he oiled two of his fingers and pressed them into her ass again.  What had been compliant submission became a violent shudder, everything tightening.  Her cunt squeezed him and he growled, hunching over her.  His thrusts slowed, letting him build a slow, complimentary rhythm with his fingers.  Just two of Bull’s fingers were easily as big as four of Morgan’s own, so she now felt almost painfully full.  There was no way she could move with him now, reduced to a quivering mass.

Knowing that she was usually so quiet made her cries all the sweeter, spurring him to a faster pace just so that he could hear more of them. Her eyes kept fluttering shut, mouth open and gasping between cries.  Every inch of her was alive with nerves, trembling and over sensitized.  There was no escaping Bull, and all she could do was let him crash against her, washing way everything beyond himself.  But Bull wasn’t done with her, not yet.  She whimpered when he stilled, pulling out of her and cleaning his hand on a rag.

Hauling her up onto her knees, Bull held her as he moved to put himself at the head of the bed. The boneless feeling lingering in her legs was not help by him lifting her bodily, dragging her into his lap.  Morgan fell forward into the solidness of his chest, letting him angle her hips.  He filled her again with one swift stroke, and she tilted her head up, catching his eye.  Her own pupils were blown wide, bottom lip swollen from being bitten.  She so badly wanted to touch his face. 

Without that option, she bit him, _hard_.  Her teeth sank into his pectoral, just shy of drawing blood, and Bull snarled.  Morgan didn’t let go, sucking on the skin between her teeth.  Here, with the door closed and just the two of them, she could pretend that he was hers, that she really did belong to him.  There was no Inquisition and no Qun, just them, together in bed.  There was nothing but him, and Morgan felt the safest she had felt in years.

Just because qunari tended to have thicker skin than most people, didn’t mean that Morgan’s bite didn’t hurt. And, _vashedan_ , it was perfect.  Sharp and bright and hot.  What little mercy there had been in his thrusts was lost.  Lowering his head, he buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent as he stroked her over his cock.  The smell of her alchemy still clung to her, under the arousal and sweat.  The moment she felt his breath in her hair, Morgan tilted her head up, seeking his mouth.  Still pounding into her, Bull gave her what she wanted, catching her mouth with his.  Claiming, dominating.  She whimpered against him, her body so very pliant and soft.  Then she had her feet under her, putting the muscles she had earned to work and moving herself with him. 

“Fucking perfect,” he growled against her lips, helping her along, fingers rough on her tender backside.

“Bull…” His name was all she could manage, her head dropping back to his chest.  He let her move with him, helping her rise up and then lowering her back down onto his cock.  Her breasts dragged against his chest, the quiet ache in her shoulders folding to the mess of feelings criss-crossing her body.  Pleasure so intense she would ache from it in the morning, and pain so perfect it burned away everything except for Bull.  As their bodies ground together, she was dimly aware that another orgasm was approaching.  The moment she realized it there was nothing she could do.  It bore down on her, her legs trembling as she pushed herself up and down, over and over and _over_.

He could feel her coming apart under his hands, practically dropping back down onto him each time, and struggling to meet his thrusts. She started to tighten around him, her whimpering gasps becoming a running string of, “please, please, please, please,” all strung together like a fucking prayer.  Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he yanked her head back, watching her face.  Flushed under her freckles, eyes struggling to stay open, and her lips red and kiss-bitten. 

Then her eyes opened properly, locking with his, and he knew he was done for. As his body coiled tight in preparation for release, he slipped one hand between them, finding her clit and plucking it _just_ the way she liked.  Morgan’s cry died in her throat as the last of her control shattered.  She went limp in his hold, every muscle in her body pulling tight before heat exploded outward from her core.  She felt Bull moving still, slamming up into her until his head dropped and he bit her.  Not as hard as last time, but she still let out a whimpering cry as he ground her down against his twitching cock. 

They came down from the high together, panting and beaded with sweat. Morgan kissed Bull’s chest over the dark, purplish mark that she had left.  She felt immensely proud of it, knowing just how much work it took to mark Bull’s thicker skin.  The indents of her teeth were there as well, a bit fainter but still visible.  She tilted her head up, chin still on his chest, and smiled.  His head had dropped back, horns bumping the stone behind the headboard.  He took only a moment before he straightened up, lifting her off of him and helping her turn around.

Morgan slouched on the bed as Bull gently untied her, massaging his hands over places where the rope had dug in. Her wrists came undone last, and Bull moved around in front of her to continue his attention.  Without thinking, Morgan pulled her hands back to her chest, habit cutting through the haze of afterglow.  Bull lowered his head slightly, trying to catch her eyes.

“Hey. You don’t have to hide those from me.”  His hands came out again, slow and gentle, and Morgan let him pull her hands back.  Bull didn’t say a word, and she watched his large gray fingers gently brushing over the rows of silver scars, massaging the red indents from the rope.  He wasn’t looking at her, but she searched his face, looking for some sign of distain or disgust.  There was nothing of the sort.  “Just a minute, Boss.” 

He left the bed, and Morgan’s eyes didn’t follow, instead staring down at her wrists. It was usually easier for people to just ignore them completely. When Bull came back, he was holding a damp cloth, and leaned her back to clean gently between her legs.  She felt the bed dip as he sat down, and her eyes again lifted to his face, her brows slightly furrowed.  “People usually say something,” she mumbled, her voice crackling slightly.

“Usually.” Bull eased himself back onto the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, holding one of his arms open.  Morgan hesitated for a moment, then crawled up, fitting herself to his side and laying her head against his chest.  Bull draped his arm around her.  “Sh’vara told me,” he admitted.  “They were worried when they first saw you.”

“Oh,” Morgan heard herself say. She didn’t look up, finger tracing one of the many scars on Bull’s chest.  “Most people either ignore them, or ask questions.”

His hand tilted her chin up to meet her gaze. “You can share as much or as little as you want with me, Boss,” he said.

It didn’t make _sense_.  There were always judgements about self-inflicted wounds.  How could he just pass over it like that?  He _had_ to be judging her, at least a little.  He was just too polite to say anything.  Her brows came together, a frown pulling at her lips.  “You’re… very strange,” she mumbled.

“I know your mind takes you to some dark places,” Bull said, as if able to read her mind through the shifts of her face. “Mine does, too.”  He paused a moment, as if thinking.  “Look, I _do_ have questions, but I know enough not to ask them.  Just like how I lost my eye isn’t exactly my story to tell, those scars, that’s all up to you.”

There _had_ to have been some sort of divine hand in making such a man.  He was far too perfect.  Well, not perfect, but the acceptance he greeted just about everything with…  What had she done to deserve that?  She looked down, turning her left hand to expose both the mark and her scars.  Unlike the ones on her back, they didn’t have a story, not really.  Just days and weeks and years of the darkest thoughts.  Pain had become a way to siphon them away, given her something _real_ and physical to focus on.  Physical pain was easy.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, draping a leg over his.

“I will say one thing,” Bull murmured, tracing random patterns on her hip. “If you ever feel the urge to do that, you come to me.  I can give you what you need in a way that isn’t as self-destructive.”

Morgan kept her head down. “Is… do you think that’s why I like what you do to me?  I started associating physical pain with a release from all that… darkness?”  He heard the shame in her words, and could practically _smell_ the self-loathing.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, there are lots of reason people like to add pain to sex.  Whatever the reason, as long as it’s done safely and with consent, there’s no shame in it.”

Finally, she lifted her head again, giving him a dry smile. “I’m not sure I should take advice on what’s shameful from someone as hedonistic as you.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Hah!  Maybe not.”  His expression softened.  “But you should _never_ be ashamed of what we do here.  It’s about what you _need_ , not about what’s ‘right’ or ‘shameful’.”  He spat out the words with clear derision, as if he’d tired of them long ago.  He probably had.

“What about what _you_ need?” Morgan asked quietly.  It was always easy to deflect.  Bull must have seen the deflection, but ignored it.

“I told you not to worry about me, Boss,” he said, giving her ass a playful squeeze. “However I get to have you, I’m enjoying myself, trust me.”

Her lips pursed and pulled to the side, brows still furrowed. “That’s not what I asked,” she said, sitting up a little.  “Enjoying things and needing them are very different.”

He stifled his laugh, instead shaking his head with a rueful smile. It was much harder to deflect with words when the other person was almost as skilled as he was at such things.  “Look, when it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want, pacify them.”  He took a breath, almost as if he needed to steady himself.  He did _not_ , need steadying, he told himself.  “But when it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.” 

“Oh.” Her heart was thudding in her chest again, his words echoing in her brain.  Quickly, she shook her head.  “Bull, stop stalling.  If you want something specific out of this, if there’s something you’d like me to do, I’m willing to listen and to try.”

With a playful growl of exasperation, Bull rolled them, pinning her under him and burying his face in her neck. “You are relentless, you know.”

Somehow, not seeing his face made it easier. “I care about you, too, Bull.  I want to give you what _you_ need.”

Shit, when was the last time he’d had a partner that concerned about _him_?  Most of the time, he wasn’t around long enough for there to be any kind of attachment.  But he’d been fighting and traveling beside Morgan for months now.  She matter nearly every bit as much as the Chargers.  For a moment, a word came to mind, simple and perfect until he shoved it away.  He made it easier by attributing her need to please him with her helpful and caring nature.  It was easier to think about that way.  He nibbled her neck, making her squirm and startling a giggle out of her.

Sighing into her neck, he eased his weight onto his side, looking down at her. “Thanks, Boss,” he said, smiling.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Morgan searched his face, then sighed. “I’ll take it, I guess,” she said.  Then she bit her lip.  She _knew_ he would have to leave.  The expression turned to a scowl, and she rolled to bury her face in his chest.  “Fuck nobility,” she grumbled.  “I shouldn’t have to sneak my lovers around.”

For a very, _very_ brief moment, Bull considered telling her that she didn’t have to.  But he also _knew_ that she was right.  Many alliances could be lost if the Inquisitor, the _Herald_ was known to be bedding a Ben-Hassrath agent.  Just plain old qunari mercenary was bad enough, but an _actual_ agent of the Qun…  Josephine may have been beyond excellent at her job, but she was no mage, and it would take a damn miracle for people not to judge Morgan negatively for sleeping with him.

“You have other people coming up at night, Boss?” he teased, and she prodded him in the ribs.

“You are _quite_ enough for me, thank you,” Morgan mumbled.  She looked up at Bull, biting the inside of her cheek and thinking.  “You know, I wouldn’t ask you to… well, stop being _you_ just because we’re doing this, Bull.  If there’s someone else you’d like to—”

“While we’re doing this, you’ve got my complete attention.” He said it so quickly and easily, that it took her a moment to comprehend the words.  When she did, Morgan actually sat bolt upright and _stared_ at him.

“Wait… seriously?!” It was one thing to just _imagine_ that he was hers, that she could go to him to relieve her frustrations.  But to know that he had _given up_ his usual habits because of _her_ …  And then his eyes slid away, just for a moment.  Realization crept in on her.  “This is the first time you’ve done something like this, isn’t it?” she said quietly.  “Just… focused on one person?”

Bull looked back to her, his half-smile rueful. She was too smart for her own good, and that really wasn’t fair.  She was right, too.  He bedded the same person more than once before.  But something like this, where she was his _friend_ , someone he cared about…  That was uncharted territory.  He had no name for it, no matter how hard he tried; not qunlat, and not in any of the other languages that he knew.  It was strangely easier to give someone what they needed when they didn’t know him, didn’t _trust_ him the way Morgan did.

He sighed. “Yeah, it is,” he admitted with a shrug.

“Oh.” For some reason, his admission was a relief, and she found herself smiling.  “I’m glad I’m not the only one in uncharted territory here,” she said, shoulders relaxing.  “Since…  Since Mari, I’ve only ever slept with people I didn’t really know, just casual acquaintances and never friends.”

It was the first time she had spoken her former lover’s name, and Bull instantly filed it away for later. He found some relief, too, in the fact that Morgan might be as confused on how to do this as he was.  Qunari could blow off steam with their friends, so sex between comrades wasn’t exactly unheard of.  It was frowned upon when on active duty, as spending too much time with one person in particular could lead to _attachment_ , and putting that individual above the rest of the company.  But Tamassrans were precious, and vary rarely ever found on the front lines, where Bull had almost always found himself.  But this…

This _wasn’t_ just blowing off steam, giving a comrade an outlet for the anxieties and fears that plagued them.  He wasn’t just fucking his boss, he was fucking his _friend_.  He didn’t fuck the Chargers, and they were as close as anyone got to him beyond Par Vollen.  But he _liked_ giving Morgan what she needed, and liked spending time with her when they weren’t out fighting corrupted Templars and closing Rifts.  He wasn’t quite ready to think about just how much he had liked her falling asleep against him out in the Western Approach.

Morgan couldn’t put a proper description to the expression on Bull’s face, but she smiled shyly at him all the same. “We can muddle through together,” she finally said, easing herself back down and giving him her back.

Without thinking, his arm curled around her waist, dragging her up against his chest. “Can you stay for a little while?” she murmured.

Bull reached up and tweaked her nipple gently, chuckling when she squeaked and jerked. “If you insist, Boss.”

“I’ve gotten so used to sleeping with you next to me when we’re out there,” she made a vague gesture towards the window, and the world that lay beyond it, “sometimes I have trouble sleeping when I’m not in a cramped, musty tent.”

Bull snorted, but said nothing. He knew that feeling.  You got so used to sleeping on the ground that something as comfortable as a bed was impossible to rest in.  Coming back from Seheron, it had been weeks before he’d been able to shut his eyes in bed, even when he worked himself to exhaustion.  Abruptly, Morgan stiffened, and he frowned.  “Boss?”

“I just realized,” she said in a whisper, “you’re going to meet my mother.”

He blinked at the back of her head for a moment, then chuckled. He wouldn’t tease her for being embarrassed of him, he knew that would hurt more than amuse.  Stroking random patterns on her side, he shrugged.  “I’ve met the parents of people I’ve fucked before, you know,” he said.  “There was this one time, I took this Orlesian judge to bed after a job, and it turned out I’d been fucking his daughter the week before.”

Morgan made a face and turned to look back at him. “Under _no_ circumstances will you be fucking my mother.”

“Well, if she’d anywhere as cute as you—ow!”

Morgan hit Bull with the pillow again for good measure. “My mother is far too sweet and gentle for the likes of you,” she said, eyes glittering with mirth.  She shook her head, laying so that she faced Bull.  “She’ll probably like you, honestly.  Might be intimidated, though.  Men make her… nervous.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I make pretty much everyone nervous,” Bull said dryly.

“Anyone who walks around the Ferelden countryside with their tits out is to be feared,” Morgan said sagely.

“Pff, like you’re complaining,” he snorted.

Morgan flattened her palm and drew it over his chest, following the path of a particularly thick scar. “Mmm, nope.  Not really,” she hummed.  “Still think you’re a little crazy for it, though.”

“Hah! There’s nothing little about me!”  Morgan groaned and buried her face in his side while he laughed.  His hand wandered to her hair, slipping through the strands.  She hummed happily, closing her eyes and settling her head on his shoulder.  With him there, the worries of her duties didn’t dare intrude, and when they tried, she simply breathed in the smell of him, hot metal and the gentle salt tang of sweat. 

They lay like that for a while, Morgan listening to the heavy thump of Bull’s heart, and the fire crackling beyond. As their bodies cooled, Bull dragged up one of the slightly rumpled blankets, draping it over both of them.  It wasn’t as if they hadn’t shared blankets before, they were just in a bed this time.  Even the usual background noise of his pain—always there, no matter what he did—was at a low ebb, his knee and ankle barely a buzz. 

Morgan had more or less gotten used to the feeling of the Anchor. She supposed it could be categorized as pain, but it was so familiar now it was hard for her to tell.  It felt different since the Fade, which she attributed to using it to banish the Nightmare.  She didn’t feel it as much when she wasn’t thinking about it, but there was always awareness.  Solas had told her this was her sensing the Veil, and the potential to bring magic through.  She didn’t _want_ to bring magic through, but Solas seemed to be pushing her in that direction.

With a quiet grumble, she curled her legs around Bull’s thigh, sticking her toes under the warm limb. Bull twitched, looking down at her.  “Are you doing frost magic under the covers?” he accused, frowning.

Rolling her eyes, she just wiggled her feet further under his leg. “I’m cold.  You’re warm.  You can leave when my feet no longer feel like blocks of ice.” 

“I’m going to go for a walk outside the castle, build something in the snow, come back, and stick my hands up your shirt,” Bull muttered sullenly, fighting a smile when she giggled.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” she said impishly, sticking her tongue out at him.

Ducking his head and cupping the back of her neck, Bull caught her in a kiss, tongue sliding easily into her mouth. Without a word, the will to move seeped from her limbs, one hand sliding over his chest.  Growling against her, he rolled them, pinning her under him again.  A quiet noise of surprise was lost in the kiss, one arm bracing beside her, while his hand slid under the blanket, following the curve of her side.  His touch was infinitely gentle when is finger pressed between her legs.  “Didn’t get a taste of you this time,” he rumbled, tone almost petulant.

Morgan couldn’t help but smile. “You’ll get no objections from me if you’d like to remedy that fact,” she said, thighs parting to provide better access.

Yes. This was easier. _So_ much easier than trying to figure out exactly what _this_ was, or what it was turning into.  There was no question in his mind as he kissed down her tattoos and nuzzled through her dark curls.  There was no need to wonder as she sighed and slipped her legs over his horns, letting him spread her open.  He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to come up with labels. He just had to _act_.

 

000

 

For the first time that week, Morgan didn’t come awake with a start. As she hurried to gather her senses, she felt no cold on the sheets, and saw no blazing flames when she was able to open her eyes.  If she had dreamt at all, it faded the moment she was fully awake.  It took a moment to realize that it was not Hinter at her back, and when she did, a smile curved her lips.  It was pitch dark beyond her windows, dawn looking a long way off.  Not wanting to disturb him, she turned her head to peek over her shoulder.

It struck her that while she had shared a tent with him, she had never actually _looked_ at him while he slept.  His face was relaxed and loose; no need to put on a show of expressions or use a mask.  Even set in a neutral way, it was easy to tell that he was a man that smiled easily, with crinkling lines around his mouth and in the corner of his eye.  His arm was draped over her, has hand pressed softly to her chest.  There was power in seeing him like this.  Had she been anyone else, she could have pulled the knife that she kept under the pillow and slit his throat.

He trusted her enough to fall asleep naked in her bed, in her room, even if only for a few hours. It was nearly humbling enough to take her breath away, and she smiled.  This friend, this comrade in arms… what had she done to deserve such friendship?  To deserve reassurance when she felt as if the world was coming down around her?  If not the Maker, who had turned from the people of the world, then maybe Aandraste _had_ had a hand in Morgan’s fate, to warrant such an amazing person crossing her path.

Almost instantly, she stuffed the thought, shaking her head at her foolishness. Whatever this was, it was real, not the charade of friendship she had grown accustomed to in the Carta.  It was so real and wonderful that she felt her heart fluttering just to know it.  She had put a hand over her mouth to muffle a giggle.  Of _course_ , the world had to walk itself to the brink of destruction for her to find someone like this.  Sh’vara and Asala were still her friends, but it was different with Bull.  He could read her and didn’t let her get away with her masks or evasions, making her honest. 

 _“Honest, HAH!”_ she thought dryly.  Before, it was never a word she would have used to describe herself.  She had always been a good liar.  It had been necessary; little lies to keep her father from getting angry.  Even without Carta training, she had always been good at spinning a story.

Her mind could never leave her alone for long, pointing out that Bull was _also_ an excellent liar, and had been doing it for many more years than her.  He would certainly have the skills to make him appear to be her dearest friend, when really he cared little for her beyond her being the Inquisitor and a great source of information.  She hated herself for the thoughts, turning away and hiding her face in the pillows again. But more, she hated her great-aunt and the Carta for turning into this untrusting, hateful thing, always ready to see the worst in people, even those she held dear.

Tears pricked her eyes and she forced herself not to tense, not to shift even a little. Like her, Bull was a light sleeper, and any stirring from her would surely rouse him.  Then, a quiet sound reached her, making her eyes snap back open.  Bull was _snoring_.  Slowly, she looked back, her eyes searching his face and neck for any sign of wakeful movement.  Instead, the snoring grew in volume, a loud, rough noise that would normally have made her giggle.

Instead, she remembered what Krem had said, about how ‘the Chief’ only snored when he was able to truly relax and let his guard down. Not once in all the months since the Conclave, had she heard Bull snore.  They had shared a tent night after night, and there had never been any sound but his even breathing, and maybe the occasional grunt or grumble upon waking.  Slowly, she rolled onto her back and eased herself into a sitting position, Bull’s hand remaining draped over her legs.

It was here, in her bed, that he felt safe enough to really sleep. Her doubts turned to ash, and she found herself grinning so widely that her cheeks hurt.  She might not have known what she did to deserve such trust, but she wasn’t about to look a gift-horse in the mouth.  Still smiling, she began easing out of bed.  The snoring stopped the moment his hand fell away from her, and she turned as his eyes opened.

“Just putting another log on the fire,” she murmured, feet dropping onto the floor. “You can stay longer if you want.  Dawn’s a ways off.” 

His eye flicked to the window, and he let out a heavy sigh, nodding as he relaxed back into the pillows. Shivering, Morgan hurried across the floor to toss a few more logs into the small remaining flames.  Waiting for the new dry wood to catch, she wrapped one arm around herself, reaching the left out towards the flames.  She felt the warmth, and, as she closed her eyes, the dryness of pine in the back of her mouth, the little slivers that turned instantly to glowing embers.  She inhaled, practicing the pull that Solas had taught her.  The flames could be bigger, burning hotter, so she dragged and tugged, working it slowly into reality.

With the fire crackling merrily again, Morgan hurried back to bed, climbing swiftly under the covers. She gave Bull some space initially, but he hooked a hand around her and dragged her back to his side, and only made a vague grumbling noise when she stuck her chilled toes back under him.  His hand stroked her hair, absently working through the tangles brought about by sleep.  She wondered if her tossing had bothered him.  But he was _immensely_ comfortable, and she was finding it easy to just fall back to sleep.  And, just as before, her father did not enter her dreams, and the Fade was not a place of terror.

 

000

 

_Haven. Again._

_Morgan was learning to recognize the Fade for what it was. Not exactly false, but not the same sort of reality as the waking world.  She was just glad that it wasn’t her childhood home, where some version of her father always seemed to be waiting.  At least this version of Haven was before the attack, clean and whole, if strangely empty._

_“Do you truly miss this place?”_

_Turning, she saw Solas approaching. His eyes seemed gold for a moment before he drew closer.  She shrugged.  “Yes.  It was the first place I got to be myself since I left home,” she admitted, turning from him and looking around again.  “Solas… why is it always my father?”_

_“The one in your nightmares?” he questioned. She nodded.  “Any number of reasons.  If a malicious spirit or demon were to visit, they draw on your own thoughts and memories.  From what little you have told me, he seems the perfect candidate to torment you.”_

_“I don’t open up to people easily,” Morgan said, looking at his face but unable to meet his eyes. They scared her now, especially in the Fade.  So full of some… ancient intelligence and knowledge._

_“You keep strange company.”_

_The barb at Bull was not missed, and Morgan felt a scowl twist her face. “He’s a lot like me, you know,” she pointed out.  “Trained to lie and manipulate people.  Seems pretty understandable that I’d find some common ground with him.”_

_“You left the Carta behind. The Iron Bull still reports to the Ben-Hassrath.”_

_“Yet he has done everything to aid us,” Morgan said tightly. “Solas, you are an excellent teacher, and I definitely want to learn from you.  But if you keep trying to undermine the trust that Bull has earned, I will find someone else.”_

_A moment of silence, and then a sigh. “Of course.  You spend far more time with him than I.”  The ease with which he dropped the subject was not comforting.  “I am assuming you wish to keep your newfound… abilities… secret from your great-aunt?”_

_“Oh,_ fuck _yes,” Morgan said quickly. “She’s going to be enough trouble knowing I can seal Rifts and command armies.  Magic… she’d use it.  I’d bet all the gold in the Inquisition’s coffers that she’d sell me to Tevinter for experimentation at the drop of a hat.”_

 _Behind her, Solas’s eyes narrowed sharply._ That _was not an option. The anchor had been painstakingly crafted, and while it had gone wrong in placement, things would be much worse if Tevinter Magisters got a hold of it.  “That is a fate best avoided.”_

 _“No shit. I’d kill myself before I let people like Erimond_ touch _this.” The Mark glimmered for a moment, visible even in the Fade.  And to look at her, with the eyes that Solas had, one would know her only for a mage.  Her body was alive with the power, just as his was.  It was different, not born from her but like a crack in a façade, something bright showing through dull stone.  If she was to survive the Mark, she would need to learn control quickly._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck these guys are in so deep... I should not be enjoying this nearly as much as I am. So we'll meet 'Aunty' Dorothea next chapter, so it might be a little while coming. As always, thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are adored! Thank you all sooo much!


	22. Aunty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunty comes to visit, and no one likes her. Everyone is ready to protect Morgan, but Aunty is very sneaky. Also, mentions of torture in this chapter, as well as a minor PTSD flashback. My issues aren't as bad as Morgan's, so if I write anything that doesn't seem right as far as PTSD goes, please let me know. Also, Bull doesn't know what to do with non-sexy feelings.

 

Aunty:

 

As if to match the coming visit, and the general mood of anyone close to the Inquisitor, the sky remained stubbornly gray for the next two days. The courtyard was churned into a muddy mess, and the inside of nearly every building smelled of wet leather and wool to some degree.  Against Josephine’s urging, she remained in plain clothes, leathers clean and hair loose.  She would not put on airs, and knew that Dorothea Cadash would complain no matter what.  Morgan was determined not to care. 

Despite that, she noticed that Dorian and Vivienne looked particularly dark and… ‘mage-y’, as Sera put it. The air around seemed to crackle with it, but it was in such an artful and controlled way, that there was no way it wasn’t on purpose.  Josephine, of course, had made sure that the great hall was spotless, and everyone who was attending to be clad in fresh, clean clothes.  There would be the _dinner_ of course, where everyone attending would wear _formal_ clothes.  Morgan had seen the designs for the Inquisition formal attire.  The first incarnations had been bright red and blue, and then quickly dismissed by Josephine and Vivienne as ‘garish’ and, ‘frankly, a bit unsightly’.

Morgan had been wandering the castle since early morning, the recovered Hinter sticking to her like a shadow. The Little Chief had made her way inside, apparently not pleased with the weather.  After scratching Hinter for shoving his nose at her rear end, the two came to a sort of truce, and the cat joined in as another escort.  As she circled the first floor of the library, Morgan thought about dodging Dorian.  She hadn’t really spoken to anyone but Josephine and Bull that morning, and even that had been emotionally draining.

But the Little Chief mewed loudly and trotted over to Dorian, leaping into his lap and sitting down on the book that he _had_ been reading.  “Kaffas, you little—!”  He managed not to spill his tea, and returned it to the small circular table beside his seat.  He glared at the offending feline for several moments.  Hinter, tiring of the lack of attention, shoved his nose under Dorian’s hand, and stayed there, panting and wagging his tail, until the mage gave him a grudging scratch behind the ear.  “Your animals have terrible manners!” Dorian sniffed, managing to shoo the cat off after rolling a piece of parchment into a ball and tossing it to the floor for her to chase.

“Little Chief isn’t mine,” Morgan said with a shrug. “And Hinter likes you.”  The big dog had snuck his head fully into Dorian’s lap, continuing to obscure whatever the mage had been reading.

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Dorian conceded and stroked the great head, Hinter huffing out a breath of contentment. Dorian turned his eyes to Morgan, taking in her tight jaw and carefully blank expression.  “I heard she’s arriving today, yes?”

Morgan had told all her companions about her great aunt’s visit. Willen had made himself scarce, but had seemed to be getting along with Cabot the last time she saw him.  Leaning against the corner of a bookshelf, Morgan shrugged.  “That’s what Leliana said.  Just waiting now.”

“Family reunions are dreadful,” Dorian said with a roll of his eyes. While the two of them had talked about a great many things, and Morgan knew that he was not close with his family, he had kept the reasons to himself.  She could guess, though.

“Especially family members that ordered assassins after you as ‘training exercises’,” Morgan muttered sourly. Instantly she winced.  She had told the others that Dorothea was a tyrant, and that she was after Inquisition power, but not about the things that she had done to Morgan _personally_.  But she was so used to be candid with Dorian, it had slipped out.

“She what?!” His outburst earned him a swift glare from Fiona.  Then, more quietly, “you’re saying she tried to have you killed?”

Heaving a sigh, Morgan decided against further pretense. “Well… she didn’t want me dead, exactly.  She just told four different people to try and kill me on four different occasions.”

Dorian had stopped petting Hinter, and the dog huffed impatiently. He was ignored as the mage pinched the bridge of his nose, as if battling an oncoming headache.  “And what, dare I ask, was the purpose?”

Morgan shrugged. “You’d have to ask her that.  It’s not unusual.  Even if you aren’t directly involved with the more… violent aspects of Carta life, you can get attacked at any time.  We had to know how to defend ourselves.”

“And she decides to teach you by trying to _kill_ you?!  That is _definitely_ unusual!”  As she blinked at him, he felt something cold settle in his belly.  He knew it immediately, the feeling one he had known intimately since fleeing Tevinter.  Icy rage coated his insides, making his hands ball into fists.  Taking a breath, he dragged a hand over his face.  “Yes, well, at least the assassins we deal with now actually have a _reason_ for wanting you dead,” he sniffed.  “I’ll never understand you southerners.”  He threw up his hands in mock despair, pulling his book from under Hinter’s jowls.

Shaking her head, Morgan meandered away, skirting the great hall and instead finding herself at the stairs that lead to Vivienne’s balcony. She paused there, thinking.  It was the best place to watch the main gate, but Vivienne… she was hard to deal with.  Despite her respect for the woman, Morgan still felt like she was walking on eggshells whenever she spoke with Vivienne.  The former first enchanter was always so sure of herself, and Morgan knew that that confidence could easily upset the balance of those she set herself against in the Game.

Unfortunately, a childhood full of a doubting and derisive father had Morgan _constantly_ doubting herself.  Being around a woman so glorious and sure of herself woke all those old feelings up.  She had _also_ been avoiding Vivienne since Adamant, and doing everything in her power to avoid the keenly intelligent and perceptive mage.  Vivienne would spot the change in the Mark the moment Morgan came near.  So she turned away from the steps, keeping to the side of the hall and trying to ignore how nice things looked.  She didn’t _want_ to show off, but she wanted her Aunt to know just how much there was, and then to lose any and all chance of having any of it.

Her smile turned bitter as the mud squelched in her boots. The urge to just steal a bottle of wine and bury herself in drunkenness was exceptionally tempting.  She knew she walked the edge of that, not going into fits if she didn’t have it, but still craving it when her emotions ran high.  It always eased everything, though if she drank _too_ much she just ended up more depressed than before.  Shaking her head as if to toss away the thought, she tramped up the damp steps to the battlements, the rain having taking a moment of rest. 

Stopping before the entrance to the Mage Tower, Morgan braced her hands on the stone, staring out over the gray and white landscape. She had stopped wondering about how the weather worked, so far up in the mountains that the only thing falling from the sky should be snow.  Probably something to do with Skyhold’s magic.  Normally, she could have spent ages pondering such questions, and eventually bringing them to Solas.  But not today.

Today, panic gripped her chest, dark and unrelenting. Despite the soldiers patrolling the wall walk, and the life chattering on below, she felt suddenly achingly alone.  For a moment, she forgot about the army at her back, about the friends that had been so quick to anger when she told them about Aunty.  They didn’t even know a fraction of the things that the woman had done, but just the _idea_ that she might be trying to use the Inquisition—to use _Morgan_ —had put them all in some state of anger. 

But for just a moment, they slipped away, fear pounding like war drums in her chest. Everything felt tight, and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. _“No, no, no!”_ she thought fervently, trying to suck in a slow deep breath.  It just made her chest tighten further. _“Shit shit shit shit!”_

“Soft hands, always cool. Gentle praise and encouragement.  Smell of apples and cinnamon.”

A hand touched her cheek, and for a moment—no longer than the blink of an eye—Morgan could have sworn that she was looking up at her mother’s face, the scent of baking pies wafting under her nose.

No. Her mother was shorter.  And not a boy with blond hair.  “Cole?”  Her voice came out a breathless croak.

“They can’t hurt you. You’ve built the walls but you let us in.  We won’t let them be touched, each brick under guard.  You’re safe.”  His other hand lowered to touch her chest, resting feather light between her breasts.  The Anchor hummed softly, and slowly, the panic began to uncurl.  “You’re not alone anymore.”

She blinked, his words sinking in slowly. Once she knew what the words had been, it took her another moment to parse their meaning.  Everything came back, the real world pushing in against the snarling beast of past fears.  She _wasn’t_ alone anymore.  Leaning in, Morgan hugged Cole tightly.  “Thank you.”

“What… what are you doing?” His arms hovered at his sides.

“It’s a hug, Cole,” Morgan said into his tunic. It smelled of crushed mint leaves.  “You helped and I’m grateful.”  Stepping back, she smiled at him.  Her heart was still racing, chest tight.  But it no longer felt as if her lungs were being squeezed.  Heat no longer prickled under her skin.

“Oh. It was… nice?”  He seemed curious and confused, but not displeased, his head tilted and eyes glancing between Morgan’s arms and his chest where she had lain her head.  He touched the spot on his tunic.  Then he looked back up.  “You thank Bull differently.”

Blood rushed to her face so quickly that Morgan very nearly felt lightheaded. A nervous giggle bubbled in her throat, but she kept it down.  “Sometimes,” she mumbled, turning her head into the biting wind that came in over the walls.  “Don’t tell anyone about that.”

“Wrapped up tight. Not for anyone else.  Just for me.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. As much as she hated having to hide, it was oddly nice to have a secret thing, a joy just for her that no one else could touch.  Just hers.  She nodded.  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”  She took several slow breaths.  “I’m going to hurt people, Cole.  Well… _a_ person.  Just one.”

“The one that hurt you.”

“Yes. I’m going to hurt her back, so she can’t hurt any of you.”

 

000

 

Bull found Morgan down in the courtyard, standing with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Just like early in the morning, she hadn’t bothered to dress up, her hair frizzing slightly with the moisture in the air.  It was hard not to find her cute in such a foul mood.  She was so small that it was almost comical to see that much seething anger on her rounded, freckled face.  But he knew the edge that anger had, and so the need to laugh went away easily.

“You want me here?” he asked. When her eyes lifted, the stony expression relaxed slightly.

“Yes,” Morgan breathed. “I do, but Aunty might call you an ‘ox’.”

Bull snorted. “Not like I haven’t heard that before.”

“Yeah, but if she does it’s going to be _really_ hard not to punch her in her stupid fucking face.”  Her face hardened again, lip curling slightly.  “I don’t want to ruin this before it starts.  Josephine went to all the trouble of getting everything set up, after all.”

“I can still just tip her over the balcony,” Bull offered, only half joking. He let her see the part of him that meant it, and a half smile curled one corner of her mouth.  But she just shook her head.

“No. I won’t kill someone who hasn’t made a move against the Inquisition,” Morgan sighed.  There was a commotion from the main gate, and she took a slow, deep breath.

As far as Bull was concerned—as well as Sera and Dorian, for certain—the old bitch already _had_ made a move against the Inquisition, by trying to worm her way back into Morgan’s life.  Sera and Dorian might not know _everything_ , but they had been told enough about Dorothea Cadash to hate her plenty.  Varric had been oddly silent on the subject, and had apparently shut himself away.  When he wasn’t in his room writing, he was often found in the aviary, sending letter after letter, or waiting for a raven to return.  Bull could have asked Red what the other dwarf was sending, but he already had a pretty good idea.

“It that them, my dear?” Vivienne’s cool voice floated down from the steps behind them, and Bull watched Morgan’s back go rigid.  She didn’t turn as the mage gracefully descended the steps to come and stand beside them.

“Should be,” Morgan said stiffly. Half turning her head, she snuck a glance at Vivienne.  The older woman looked down and it would have looked foolish for Morgan to try looking away.  She held the other woman’s dark eyes for a moment before turning back to the group of dwarves that had entered the courtyard. 

“Morgan, if you though I did not notice the difference in the Anchor after your trip to the Fade, they you are sorely mistaken.”

 _“Well, fuck.”_ Morgan dragged a hand through her hair, glancing over her shoulder.  “That obvious, huh?”

Vivienne was still watching the approaching group, now flanked by Inquisition shoulders and led by one of Josephine’s scribes. “Only to some.  If you require further assistance, do let me know.  In the meantime…”  Her lip curled, and she shifted, her posture changing so that she somehow appeared even taller.  How someone could look that magnificent in a muddy courtyard that smelled of horse, Morgan would never know.

A soft, misting drizzle had begun by the time the scribe reached Morgan. He bowed low, stepping to the side and using his hand to present those behind him.  “Inquisitor Cadash, may I present Dorothea Petra Cadash, Matriarch of the Cadash Clan.”  He spoke so easily, as if it were perfectly normal to be introducing a well-known member of a Carta crime family in the same as one would introduce a noble.

The woman at the head of the group of dwarves dropped her hood, and Morgan’s back began to itch just looking at the familiar face. Dorothea had the same squared jaw and clefted chin as her grand-niece, but the similarities ended there.  Sharp cheekbones jutted over sunken cheeks, and icy gray eyes stared out over a narrow, hooked nose.

Her gray hair was shaved on the sides, the long length of the rest tight to her skull in a single thick braid that hung over one shoulder. Rings of gold glittered in her ears, and a gold tooth winked as her wrinkled face contorted into a smile.  “Morgan!  So good of you to welcome us yourself!”  Her eyes crinkled the way Morgan’s did, but Bull saw no warmth in her eyes.  When he looked to Morgan, he found her wearing the perfect welcoming smile, posture relaxed and confident.

“Aunty, so good to see you!” It took all she had not to clench her hands into fists, or turn and run.  Despite everything, she still feared the woman before her.  But she gave nothing away, sweeping an arm up the steps.  “Come, out of the rain!”

Bull watched, stone-faced, as Dorothea followed Morgan up the steps. Her head turned, eyes traveling swiftly over the qunari.  They narrowed, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly.  Bull knew that look; disapproving and distrustful.  He fought back the urge to fall into step beside Morgan, to put his arm around her shoulders, to rub it in the old cunt’s face that her niece was sleeping with a ‘savage ox’.  He enjoyed pissing people off, and this woman… this cold-hearted _bitch_ , was one of the people responsible for Morgan’s pain.  Instead, his face remained blank, the perfect silent bodyguard.

Then her eyes turned to Vivienne, her lip actually curling slightly. “Awful lot of mages, I see.”

“Well, I did recruit the entire Mage Rebellion,” Morgan said, smiling brightly. “This is Madame De Fer.”

The warm smile on Vivienne’s face didn’t reach her eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, Mistress Cadash,” she said kindly, inclining her head. 

Despite her clear disdain for the company, Dorothea smiled warmly. “A pleasure, Madam!”  She clasped Vivienne’s hand.  “A pity you had to leave your ivory tower to be out here with the likes of us.  You must miss it dearly, poor thing.”

“Of course luxuries are to be missed,” Vivienne said calmly. “But they are far from required.  Those that cannot do without luxuries don’t last long in this world, do they?”

The matriarch huffed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You must be _awfully_ tired, Aunty,” Morgan said, radiating concern while her words prickled with barbs.  “Please, come inside out of the wet.  It can’t be doing your arthritis any favors.”

Dorothea reached in and patted Morgan’s cheek. “Always such a sweet girl,” she cooed, and Vivienne felt a spike of angry power from the dwarf. 

But Morgan’s smile never wavered, and she led them up the steps, Vivienne and Bull falling in behind her, a vanguard made up of a juxtaposition that perfectly summed up the Inquisition. Morgan’s heart swelled, feeling them behind her.  Power and strength of two very different kinds.  Vivienne might not have been a friend like Varric or Dorian, and Morgan might never fully trust her, but it felt good to have her at her back.  And Bull… what more could she say about Bull.

The group was ushered in by pages, taking cloaks and closing the big doors behind them. Josephine was waiting with her most warm and diplomatic smile.  “Lady Cadash, welcome!” she said brightly.  “Would you care to retire to your rooms to freshen up?”

“Very kind of you, Lady Montilyet,” Dorothea said with and imperious nod. “I believe we shall.”  She looked to Morgan.  “You must be terribly busy, _Inquisitor_.  I shouldn’t like to think that someone like me took you from your duties.”  Her eyes looked past Morgan to where Bull stood behind her, arms still crossed. 

“Not at _all_ , Aunty,” Morgan said brightly.  “Let us know when you’d like to speak.  Or if you like, it can wait ‘till dinner.”

Again, Dorothea reached in and patted Morgan’s cheek, appearing every inch the doting grandmother. Morgan just smiled back, but Bull wanted to break the old woman’s wrist.  He, Morgan, Vivienne, and Josephine watched the group go.  The moment the door closed after them, Bull saw Morgan try and fail to repress a full-body shudder.  Vivienne looked unimpressed, and Josephine’s smile had vanished without a trace.  After a brief conversation, Josephine left to iron out the last details for that evening’s dinner, and Vivienne drifted after her.

Morgan’s cheek felt as if it were on fire, and she had to resist the urge to claw at it. She had never hated anyone so much in her life.  As her arms folded tightly in front of her, Bull’s hand brushed her shoulder.  “You don’t have to let her touch you, you know,” he said quietly.

To his surprise, she ducked her head, shame coloring her cheeks. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell her to stop.  I froze.”  Everything else had been stripped away, her façade gone.  Without another word, she turned and brushed past him, hurrying as fast as she dared to the door to the gardens.  She heard him follow, and was glad, but had to get back out into the open air.  The heat of the hall’s fires pressed in on her, making her sweat beneath her clothes.  Her heart hammered in her ears, and her back was _burning_.

The gardens were blessedly empty when she burst out into the rain, sucking in gulps of cool air. Her knees wobbled and she dropped into the mud.  Somewhere behind her, she was vaguely aware of her name being called, the voice calling it a masculine one.  A spasm tightened her back, muscles bracing for blows that had come and gone years ago.  But her skin still felt raw, broken.  Hair clung to the side of her face, fingers digging into the grass and dirt.

It hurt to breathe. She could see the wet earth under her hands but all she could smell was damp stone and the iron smell of blood. _Her_ blood.  She could still feel the touch on her cheek, the hand smooth and soft, but burning like acid.  Whimpering, she pawed at her face, smearing it with dirt and pieces of grass, trying to change the sensation that clung to her skin, and trying not to slip deeper into what she _knew_ was warping her reality.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she screamed, spinning around and lashing out. Bull yanked his hand back as she sat down hard, scrambling backwards on her hands.  Her eyes were wide and terrified, seeing him but not comprehending.  Each breath she took was a wheeze, not enough air coming from the rapid breaths.  “Morgan.”  He said her name firmly, but gently, asking nothing of her but to recognize his voice.  “Morgan, it’s Bull.  You’re safe.  You’re in Skyhold.”

Bull. Skyhold.  Shaking, she turned her head up, closing her eyes.  The rain spotted her face, cool, not sweat.  Opening her eyes again, she stared up at the sky.  Open sky.  She wasn’t underground.  She was in the mountains.  Ferelden.  Not Ostwick.  Her breathing began to slow.

“Morgan.”

It was Bull’s voice. Looking back, Morgan saw him crouched with his bad knee in the mud, eye fixed on her.  There was no mask, no shred of pretense.  He was _scared_.

“Bull?” Was that tiny, wavering sound her voice?

“Can I touch you?” He kept his voice soft, as far from a growl as it could get.  He shoved anger aside.  He could use that later. 

Nodding stiffly, Morgan started to climb to her feet. Bull met her, his hands cupping her arms gently, not too much contact until she was ready.  Morgan pushed her hands forward, splaying them out on Bull’s stomach.  No one in Ostwick was this big.  No one she knew there had scars like this.  No one but the Iron Bull.  His heavy hands on her shoulders were soothing a weight that no one else could provide.  She remembered the first time she’d felt them, closing her eyes and going back to that first fight on the road, where he’d cleaned the wound on the back of her head. 

Her fingers found the bite she had left two nights ago, still slightly purple against the grey of his skin. Her lungs still burned, and her breathing was rapid.  The adrenaline that had carried her from the hall began to ebb, and a new weakness took her legs.  She sagged against Bull, letting her head drop to his chest.  The rain was good.  It leaked through her shirt and cooled the skin of her back, reminding her that the skin was long since healed and unbroken. 

Bull squeezed her shoulders gently, and Morgan was glad that he didn’t try to embrace her. Instead she pressed as close as she was able, happy to just stand there in the rain.  “I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he responded easily. “You wanna stay out in the rain?”

“I don’t know.” She could feel that she’d been crying, the salt mixing the rain on her cheeks.  “It’s cool.”

“And if you get sick, you have an excuse not to go to dinner,” Bull offered. He was wondering if it was too late to just poison the food.

Morgan laughed quietly, brow still resting against the warm, damp skin of his chest. “I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.  She knows I’m scared of her.”

“See, I may have mentioned it before, but there’s an _awful_ lot of high places around here that a person could fall off of.”

“I don’t want her dead, Bull,” she said, finally lifting her head and meeting his gaze. “I want her to _suffer_.”  The panic was burned away, and he saw hatred blazing.

Bull smiled. She really was something else.  “You want me to take you upstairs?”  Her fingers slid between his, and he squeezed her smaller hand gently. 

“Find Hinter first,” she mumbled. Despite her renewed anger and determination, her body still felt drained, ready to keel over in a stiff breeze.  Dogs made everything better, even if they were slightly damp.  She forced herself to let go of Bull’s hands as they left the gardens, instead shoving her hands into her pockets.  There, her right had found her worry stone.  The usually soothing motion didn’t make much of a dent in the anxiety making her heart pound, or the growing fatigue, but it was still familiar and comforting.

“She’s hurting you. She shouldn’t be here.”

Bull twitched, a hand coming forward without thinking to draw Morgan back from Cole. “Fuck’s sake, kid!” he muttered, hand slipping from Morgan’s shoulders.  They were out in the courtyard, heading towards the kennels.  “We’ve talked about this.”

“But she’s _hurting_ ,” Cole insisted.  He looked almost petulant when he tilted his head up and actually met Bull’s eyes.  “Dark, dripping water.  Arms aching, hanging by wrists.  Blood trickled, sweat burning in each gash.  Sky, can’t see the sky.”  He looked back down, hands fluttering at his sides.  “She’s hurting you.  Why do you keep her?”

Bull felt caught. The kid always seemed to _mean_ well, but that didn’t stop his mind reading from being creepy as shit.  His eyes were unsettling, too, more observant and piercing than they had any right to be.  But Bull had seen him carry a chicken with a broken wing to Solas for healing, rather than have it made into dinner.  He wasn’t a _bad_ kid.  Just creepy.  And demon-y. 

“I can’t let her hurt you,” Morgan finally said. “She wants to use the Inquisition, and that puts you all at risk.”

“Boss, that’s fine and all, but you really need to take care of yourself.”

“She doesn’t know how,” Cole said softly. “Take care of mother, make sure father doesn’t yell.  Lie to make him happy, lie to make him mad at me instead.  Others first, make myself a target so that he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“Cole…”

“I’m sorry… you don’t want to remember. I can make you—”

“No!” The words came out sharper than she had meant, and she took a breath, eyes closed for a moment.  “No, Cole.  Thank you.  I’m trying to learn to take care of myself.”  She reached out and took his hands in hers, and he stared down at the gesture in gentle puzzlement.  “Bull is helping.  He won’t let me hurt myself.”

Then Cole had lifted his head, and was staring Bull full in the face. The hair on the back of Bull’s neck and arms was instantly on end, a shiver of uneasiness working its way down his spine. _This_ was why the kid was creepy.  There was something very not-human about that look, like he could see everything without even trying.  Part of Bull wondered if things—people?—like Cole would make good spies.  The other part just wanted to kid to stop looking at him like that.

“No,” Cole finally said, some of the tension easing out of his brown face. “The Iron Bull won’t let that happen.  He wants to smash her head against the floor.”

“Stop reading his mind, Cole,” Morgan said, voice clipped but still gentle. She didn’t comment on how touching she actually found it.  It was probably didn’t say anything good about her that she found Bull’s willingness to murder on her behalf touching.  “Have you seen Hinter?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

“He’s with the one-eyed cat,” Cole said, turning to point towards the stables. “Blackwall feeds them from his lunch.”

Offering an honest but watery smile, Morgan thanked Cole and moved past him, Bull remaining at her back. As per usual, the braziers in the barn were well tended, the air warm even in the damp.  The smell of wood shavings and horse reached Morgan before she stepped inside.  Coming around the corner, she saw Hinter and the Little Chief sitting at Blackwall’s feet, staring intently as he worked on a plate of cold sausages and potatoes.  Morgan paused, staying out of sight.  She was rewarded with the sight of the Warden holding up a piece of sausage.

“Say please,” he told the dog. Hinter lifted a paw and put it excitedly on Blackwall’s knee, never once looking away from the morsel in the man’s hand.  “Good boy.”  As Hinter lowered his head to chew, Blackwall eyed the cat.  “You won’t do any tricks, but you expect a treat, too, of course?”  The cat mewed plaintively, and he rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes.”  He tossed down a slightly smaller piece, chuckling as the Little Chief smacked Hinter’s inquisitive nose.

Coming around the corner, Morgan made sure to make enough noise to draw attention. Hinter looked up, his tail instantly starting to wag.  He trotted over, mouth opening in a tongue-lolling smile as his master bent and began scratching his side.  “You’re going to get fat,” she teased, “begging from everyone.”

Looking up, Blackwall cleared his throat awkwardly. “Forgive me.  He’s…”

“Impossible to resist, I know,” Morgan said, straightening back up. The Little Chief left the Warden as well, walking over to twine herself around Bull’s ankles.

“So your aunt’s arrived, I hear,” Blackwall said. “Any trouble yet?”

Morgan rolled her eyes, doing a perfect impression of being annoyed rather than terrified. “Yes, she’s here, but no, no trouble. _Yet_.”  She kept her hand on Hinter, and he leaned against her, as if sensing her need for contact. 

“You need anything, you let us know.” The way he said ‘us’ made Morgan pause for a moment.  Everyone was so ready to protect her, to take up her side at her word alone.  No one had taken Morgan at her word in a long time.  As nice as it was, it was still startling.  Her smile was a bit baffled, but no less honest. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “Stay dry, Blackwall.”

“I’ll try, Cadash.” Bull didn’t miss the glance the man threw in his direction as they left, and felt the eyes linger on him as they turned back towards the castle. 

They entered through the kitchens, thankfully taking the less traveled halls to get back to her rooms. At the door, they paused.  “You want me to come up with you?” Bull asked. 

She paused, thinking. “Let’s go to the Undercroft instead.  I need your opinion on a few things for your new sword.  Harrit was asking.”  He hadn’t really, but it was easier than trying to sneak the biggest man in the castle into her rooms.  And since her talent for smithing we well known, it wasn’t at all unusual for her to speak to her companions about their weapons.  Bull and Hinter followed gladly, and Dagna greeted them with an absentminded wave before returning to whatever was bubbling at her work station.

 

000

 

Morgan wanted to bring Bull to dinner. She would have felt immensely better about being in a closed room with Aunty if he was there.  Josephine was well aware that he had become one of Morgan’s most trusted friends, but still advised against it.  Morgan had grudgingly agreed, putting on the formal shirt and breeches she was presented with.  A black tunic with silver piping was completed by a deep purple sash at her waist, and her hair was pinned back from her high brow.  She felt a bit ridiculous, but had to admit that the cut of the garments looked excellent, even on her short, stocky frame.

Cassandra was in a matching uniform, though she wore a silver pin of the Seeker’s emblem on her breast. Her mouth was set in a stern line, back stiff and straight.  She looked as if she enjoyed formal events as much as Morgan did.  Which was to say, not at all.  Cullen was there as well, and he looked downright uncomfortable.  Josephine and Leliana were there as well, sitting across the table from the dwarves that had accompanied Dorothea. 

“Must be nice,” Dorothea remarked as drinks were poured, “having humans serve you for a change.”

Having decided that any kind of alcohol was a bad idea, Morgan sipped at her cold mint tea, her stomach empty but churning with anxiety. Instead she sighed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.  “We knew you would expect the best, Aunty,” she said evenly. 

“Oh, don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Dorothea said, sipping her wine.

“We treat you with as much hospitality as anyone,” Josephine said politely. “How do you find your accommodations, Madam Cadash?”

“Perfect, of course,” Dorothea said. “I hope things are going well for you.  You routed an army of demons, from what I’ve heard.”

“We stopped the ritual meant to bring through an army of demons, actually,” Morgan corrected. “Tales of the Inquisition grow more fantastic by the day.”

“All thanks to _you_ , I’m sure,” the old woman said, smiling. 

“Of course,” Cassandra cut in, tone clipped. “The Herald has given her all to the Inquisition.”

“Ah, ‘the Herald’!” Dorothea chuckled.  “I keep hearing that.  Tell me, Morgan, do you really see yourself as chosen by the Bride of the Maker?”

“I see myself as the only one that seal Rifts,” Morgan said plainly. “If people want to see me as chosen by fate or the gods, they can.”

“I always said you were a smart one,” Dorothea chuckled. “Just playing the humble servant, eh?  Hard to believe people actually buy it, but that’s got to get you all kinds of the right attention.”

“I don’t find it necessary to play any part, Aunty,” Morgan said simply. “I just do what must be done.”  She hated her aunt more with very passing moment, and the food on her plate tasted of nothing.

“But of _course_ ,” the older dwarf sneered.  “How else could you gather such a following?”

“By being one of the greatest leaders the world has ever seen,” Cassandra snapped, not even bothering to look at Dorothea, carving at the meat before her. When the dwarf laughed, Cassandra’s gaze snapped up, already blazing.

“Forgive me, Seeker Pentaghast,” Dorothea said, eyes crinkled with mirth. “I have a hard time seeing such a thing in a girl I’ve known since she was a babe.  She was such a delicate thing.  No stomach for killing.  Tell me, do you still feel sorry for game animals, dear?”

Morgan was very glad that she had left Hinter in the Herald’s Rest with Sera again, considering that the dog would probably have been baring his teeth at Aunty for a while now. “I feel sorry for just about anyone that I have to kill, Aunty.  Unless they threaten my people.  People like that… I have no qualms about whipping them off the face of the earth.”  Her eyes blazed then, and Leliana smirked with pride.  “This is my home, now, Aunty,” Morgan continued.  “These are my people.  I’ll protect them.”

“So _noble_ ,” Dorothea said.  She smiled a nodded her head as if in approval, but her disdain was thinly veiled.  “Better be careful, little thing.  Trust can get you killed.”

“So can insulting the wrong person,” Morgan said lightly. Her anger was starting to climb, pushing down her anxiety.  Aunty had no right to be in her life any longer, and no right to an opinion on it.  “It may surprise you, _Aunty_.”  Now it was her voice that dripped with derision and spit.  “But I’m not doing this for power.  I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but I’m doing all this because it’s the _right_ _thing_ to do.”

The false softness left the old woman’s eyes. “Don’t play games with me, little thing,” she said quietly, sitting forward in her chair. 

Morgan gave her sweetest smile. “No games, Aunty.  Just truth.  I know we have our differences, but I’m still happy to have you here and listen to whatever you have to say.”  Such perfect lies.  “The Inquisition is at your service.”

The smile returned, eyes crinkling in a way that even made Cullen uncomfortable. “You always were a generous girl.  I taught you so well.”

The lie put Morgan’s teeth on edge, but instead she laughed. “You always did have a sense of humor, Aunty.”

 

000

 

By the time it was over and everyone excused themselves, Morgan’s jaw ached from clenching, and she wanted nothing more than to drink herself into oblivion. Instead, she forced herself outside into the open air of the gardens again, sucking in deep lungfuls of cool evening air.  Hinter instantly bounded forward, having been told to wait for her.  She greeted the big dog with a weary smile, crouching down to bury her face in his neck.  He leaned into her, tail swishing the air happily.  Another noise reached her, and out of reflex, she reached for the daggers usually at her back.  But it was just Bull rising from a bench to her right, rolling his head from side to side until his neck cracked.  “You good, Boss?”

He’d waited for her. Warmth and gratitude swept through Morgan, and she was able to smile properly.  “Better now,” she said, one hand still anchored at Hinter’s neck.  “Were you waiting here this whole time?”

It took actual restraint not scratch the back of his neck nervously. He had been.  “Not long.  Had to pass a report to one of Red’s people.”  It wasn’t a lie, he’d just done that hours and hours ago, well before the dinner had begun.  He had wanted to be close, just in case.  He wanted to ask, to learn what Dorothea had said.  But Morgan looked so damn _tired_ , ready to just drop into bed, formal clothes and all.  He was glad he’d waited.  “Learn anything?”

Morgan leaned one shoulder against the wall, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time. “She definitely wants something.”  Her face darkened further, and it wasn’t just the setting sun and waning light.  “She said she’s received several marriage proposals from the Merchants Guild for me.” 

He didn’t bother hiding his surprise, focusing on keeping his anger pushed down. “You serious?”

“Since Josephine has stopped responding to them, they’ve tried to go through other routes. Aunty is of the opinion I should take one of the offers.”

Bull snorted. Surprisingly, his dislike for Morgan’s great aunt was starting outpace his dislike for her father.  “You don’t think that’s all she wants, do you?”

Morgan shook her head. “No.  She’s trying to fuck with me.  Back then, most men made me nervous, and she knew it.  Made me work with them when I ‘misbehaved’.  She’s trying to make me weak and easy to manipulate.”  Her tone was bitter, but there was a spark of fear in her eyes.

He closed the distance between them in two swift strides, putting his finger under her chin and tilting her head to look at him. “You are _not_ weak, Morgan,” he said firmly.  “A weak person wouldn’t be able to be in the same room with a person like that, let alone spend hours having pleasant conversation over dinner. _Especially_ after what she’s done.”

His touch was tender and kind, and it made something inside Morgan ache painfully. So she pulled away, averting her eyes.  “I’m more scared of her than of Corypheus,” she muttered.  “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, but not for the reasons you’re thinking,” Bull said. “You think it’s fucked up that an old woman scares you more than some darkspawn magister trying to become a god.  What’s fucked up is that that old bitch hurt you so bad that the idea of being around her is more frightening than said darkspawn magister.”  He felt the edge creep into his voice.  He was so fucking _angry_.  Darkspawn magisters as old as the Blight should win, hands down, in the scary department, not wrinkled old ladies that served no purpose other than to cause unnecessary pain in others.

“It was years ago,” Morgan insisted, arms not so much crossed over her chest as holding herself now. She took a step back, shoulder’s hunching, as if trying to shut out Bull’s defense of her.

“Doesn’t matter,” he insisted, closing the distance and cupping her chin again. “There are things you don’t just _get over_.  Sometimes it’s not possible.  You just learn how to carry it with you.”

Morgan couldn’t get herself to pull away this time. Bull was safe and warm and _Maker_ , she wanted to believe him.  Hinter whined, leaning heavily against her legs, and her hand found his soft ears.  “Can we sit down?” she mumbled.  Not saying a word, Bull led her back to the bench where he’d been sitting.  He sat on one side, and Hinter laid his head in her lap.  As she leaned against him, Bull’s arm came around her shoulders.  Lifting a hand, Morgan wove her fingers with his.  “You’re always there for me,” she said softly, barely a whisper. 

Words rose in his throat, easy and simple. But he swallowed them.  It was his job to protect her, not soothe and comfort her.  Instead, he said, “you’d do the same for me, Boss.”  He smiled, and that at least, was genuine.  But the same twisting, aching feeling remained in both of them, tightening their chests as they sat together in silence.

“I would,” Morgan finally agreed. She would kill for him, too.  Had done.  “It’s good to have people like you, Bull.”  She relaxed, letting out a long breath.  Despite the cooling air, his skin was warm, the familiar metallic musk of him comforting.  She could have stayed like that forever.  “Can I use my immense political power to build a secret tunnel from the gardens to my room?”  It felt good to joke, easing the thickness of feelings that had settled around them.

Snorting out a brief laugh, Bull shook his head. “I think people might start suspecting you’re sneaking someone up to your room, Boss.”

“I _like_ having you in my room,” Morgan said petulantly.

“I like it, too,” he heard himself admit. “My feet don’t hang off the edge of the bed.”

It was too much, and Morgan dissolved into giggles. Very briefly, they bordered on hysteric, before she was able to pull herself back, wiping a stray tear from the corner of one eye.  He was a master at the art of distraction, and she was glad.  She wasn’t sure how to voice her thanks, so she smirked, reaching up to grab one of his horns.  Bull chuckled, letting her drag him down into a hard kiss.  Almost instantly, Hinter was sitting up, pushing his face between them and snuffling his confusion.

They both laughed as he began licking their faces, coming apart and trying to wipe the slobber from their faces. “You little shit,” Bull said in mocking anger.  Hinter ‘buffed’ quietly and wagged his tail, trying to push between them again.  Bull yanked Morgan into his lap. “No, she’s mine!” he said over her squeak of surprise. 

The affronted expression on the dog’s face had Morgan in tears with laughter, and eventually Bull let her down. “You’re a giant baby,” she teased, kissing the top of the dog’s head.  Then, she leaned down and said in a loud whisper, “mama’s trying to get laid here.  You’re not helping.”  Hinter’s tail waged even faster, as if that had been his exact intention from the very beginning.

Bull watched them with a relaxed smile. He didn’t know what this was, this thing where he cared for a person _and_ had sex with them.  Where he watched them tease their massive dog until the animal sat down hard on their lap in protest.  He didn’t know what it was to see all that, and just smile fondly, content with doing nothing more.  The moment was shattered when Morgan finally got to her feet.  “Thanks, Bull,” she said, and now there was a real smile on her face.  “I should get to bed, though.  Aunty was always an early riser, and she’s probably going to want a tour.”

“If you need me, you know where to find me,” Bull said, also coming back to his feet. “Or Sera.  Or Varric.  Or Dorian.  Or—”

“Yes, I know!” Morgan said, still smiling. “If I want her tipped off a balcony, all I have to do is ask.”

 

000

 

Dorothea Cadash was indeed and early riser, and crept past servants and scribes out into the pre-dawn courtyard. Her sharp eyes took in everything, watching soldiers along the wall walk, and mages coming down to spell the privies and keep the ground water clean.  She heard the bark of dogs and the occasional shout from a person.  The tavern was quiet, windows dark.  There were plenty of people about, even this early, and no one seemed to pay her any mind.  A few of the servants and soldiers even smiled politely at her.  If she’d been any less surprised, she might have laughed.

It was as she moved past the Herald’s Rest tavern that she felt eyes on her, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She didn’t make a show of stopping, instead moving until she had a better view of the mage tower, letting her eyes sweep back and forth along the wall, and then lower down.  It was the qunari from the steps that morning, the one that Morgan had been speaking with.  He was leaning against the stone, watching her without pretense or shame.  When her eyes caught his single one, something flickered there, but it was too brief and too well hidden for her to identify.  Strange.  Mercs were usually easy to read.  This one might as well have been made of stone, for as large and grey as he was.

Bull kept his smile hidden. Her noticing him made it that much more unlikely she would notice the eyes of at least _six_ of Leliana’s people that had watched her cross the courtyard.  They were pages, knights, soldiers, bakers, and merchants.  Even a few of Dennet’s people reported to the spymaster.  Mages, too.  Bull was also fairly certain that Sera had reached out to her own ‘people’, and there were a few more dwarves around than usual.  The latter was probably because of Varric, who also had his own smaller army of spies, or at least people he could trust to report to him.

Dorothea had heard plenty of rumors and stories about Morgan, and after a while, the qunari bodyguard had started showing up as well. From what she could tell, Morgan took the man everywhere with her.  It was smart, keeping a bodyguard about when you were in a position of power.  Dorothea’s niece, Rebka, had imparted a foolish respect for other cultures into the girl, and she seemed to have taken them all to heart.  You couldn’t spit without hitting a human or an elf.  There was the big grey mage that had worked with the Carta once but she wasn’t the only qunari besides the Iron Bull.

Curious, the old woman wandered over to Bull, feeling his eyes watch her every step. From the look of him, he’d seen more than his fair share of combat, and managed to look fearsome even with the missing eye.  Dorothea didn’t like qunari.  She always had to look up at them, even when they were nothing more than sell-swords doing her bidding.  This one didn’t carry a sword, and probably didn’t need one to be deadly.

“I’ve heard you’re often at my niece’s side,” Dorothea said when she stopped before him.

Bull let the image of her head dashed bloody against the steps fade from his mind. “That’s usually what bodyguards do.”  There was a great deal more that he would have liked to say to the woman, but it wasn’t his place. 

“It’s hard to find one so dedicated and… friendly with his employer.” She was probing, and didn’t even care if she was being obvious.

“It helps when the boss isn’t a complete cunt,” Bull retorted. “She’s a good leader, one worth following.”  He saw the disbelief clear in the woman’s eyes, and wanted to hit her.  The strength of his anger was deeply unsettling.  But he got angry when one of the Chargers got hurt, or just an innocent bystander.  “She’s learned a lot since the Conclave.”

“I’d like to think I had some hand in those abilities. The training she—”

“Yeah, see, she told me about that ‘training’,” Bull said. He shook his head, a derisive grin on his face now.  “You made her into something, alright, but you don’t get to take any credit for this.”  He gestured around them.  “She made this because of who she was before you.”

The dwarf’s face twisted, fury shining through the cracks. “The _fuck_ would you know, _ox_?” she spat.

Bull smirked. Calling names was so easy, so laughable and simple.  The last resort of the ignorant and hateful.  It rolled off him like water.  “I know that she’s strong.  And you… Well…”   He let himself trail off, shaking his head.  It didn’t matter what weight the matriarch had, Morgan was stronger and smarter.  She would weather anything and everything the world could through at her.  That included bitter old hags.  Bull heard the creak of a window above him, and craned his head up to see Sera looking down.

“That was fucking grand,” she giggled, grinning. “Did you see her face pinch up?”  She cackled for a moment, then settled into a smile.  “It’s nice, innit?” she said, voice suddenly a bit uncertain.  “To have… friends.  Real friends.”  Sera had never been good at hiding her feelings, and didn’t seem to care.  There was a wistful quality to her now, her smile without the usual edge of mischief.

“Don’t fill her room with bees, Sera,” Bull said, though he was still smiling.

“Wasn’t gonna!” the elf retorted, sticking out her tongue. “I was thinkin’ rotten fish in the mattress.” 

“Sera…”

“Not _yet_!  Only after she does somethin’!”

“If she does, I’ll help find the biggest, most rotten fish to stuff her room with.”

 

000

 

While she hadn’t noticed anyone else watching, Dorothea was certain that the Nightingale was having her and her people watched. Her quarters were the only place she was safe, and she knew that the soldier stationed outside the door ‘should she need anything’ was also watching.  She saw the folded paper on the desk the moment she entered, but went to the fire first, tossing another log on the fire and making sure that there was water in the kettle before she hung it over the flames.

After shedding her cloak, she wandered to the desk and sat down. The note was little more than a scrap of paper, the only use left to it was to serve as a bookmark.  Her old fingers opened the small folds, reading the single, hyphenated word written in cramped, tiny letters.

 _Ben-Hassrath_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to kill Aunty yet? It's only going to get worse! I love you guys, please let me know what you think.


	23. The Carta Gets Its Cut, Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requests are denied, people are hurt, and fury is unleashed.

 

 

The Carta Gets Its Cut, Pt 1:

 

Even with Hinter curled under the covers with her, and the Little chief tucked into a ball on the pillows beside her, Morgan lay awake in the dark, feeling the ever-present ache of the Anchor. Solas had told that it was the tug of the Fade she felt.  She didn’t want to go to the Fade and deal with spirits.  While her Mark seemed to scare most of them away, the ones that _did_ approach were… sharp.  They poked and prodded at her mind, trying to draw her out.  Some were just curious, as they had never met a ‘Child of the Stone’ before, but others…  She just wanted to sleep.  She was tempted by the whiskey bottle in her desk drawer, but forced herself to stay in bed.

When she finally drifted off, nothing was clear, just snippets of events that had never happened, making no sense and seeming without any real point. She was glad for it.  Silly, nonsensical dreams were so much easier to deal with.  However, the rest didn’t last long.  With the sky still gray in the pale morning light, someone began pounding on her door.  Hinter barked loudly, springing out of bed alongside Morgan, who had drawn the dagger she kept under her pillows.  In nothing but a knee-length cotton shift, she rushed down the stairs and threw the door open.  It was one of Leliana’s people, red-faced and panting.

“What’s wrong?”

The young woman took a few strained breaths. “Your cousin, Mi’lady!” she gasped.  “He’s been hurt.”

Cold fear trickled down Morgan’s spine. Stone-faced, she brought the woman up to her room, giving her a glass of water while she yanked on a pair of boots.  The messenger insisted on escorting Morgan back, and they rushed through the dim courtyard, Hinter trailing close behind.  In the infirmary, Morgan found Leliana and Cullen already awake, standing over a bed.  Cullen’s cheeks turned pink, seeing the Inquisitor in just her sleeping shift and boots, but she ignored it, rushing over to the bed.

Willen lay there, eyes closed. The quick rush of panic eased when she saw his chest rising and falling.  His lip was split, and someone had wiped blood from under a freshly broken nose.  Both eyes were badly swollen, and there was a bandage circling his throat.  Instead of her face contorting in anger, Morgan stared blankly, hands balling into fists at her sides.  Slowly, she lifted her head, looking to Leliana.  “What happened?” she whispered, tone as expressionless as her face.

“He stumbled into the kitchens like this,” the spymaster said, voice hushed. “The healers say he’s out of danger, but he came very close to death.”  She extended a hand, indicating the bandaging around his throat.  “A garroting wire nearly crushed his windpipe.”

“Where’s Sh’vara?” Morgan demanded, still not looking up.

“She’s already seen to him,” Leliana replied, her hand brushing Morgan’s shoulder. “She only just stepped out.”

“They,” Morgan corrected automatically.

“Yes, of course.” The frown deepened, showing the lines in her face.  “This was a botched assassination attempt.  No one has left since last night.  Whoever did this is still here.”

Morgan’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I’d put money on who did it.”

“It’s possible this was meant to punish him for warning you,” Cullen offered hesitantly. “But since he hasn’t woken, we don’t really have the ability to prove anything.”

The anger finally showed through, Morgan’s hands white knuckled and shaking. The Anchor crackled under her fingers, buzzing with heat.  “I’m going to kill her,” she breathed.  “I’m going to fucking _kill_ her.”  Leliana laid a hand on her shoulder this time, and Morgan jerked away.

“Inquisitor… Morgan.” Her voice was soft.  “Several of the soldiers stationed on guard duty for lyrium stores have fallen ill recently.  Not enough to end up here, but enough that they haven’t been able to work.  Some are weaker than others when it comes to exposure to lyrium, so we thought that was it.  But now I believe that there is more going on.”

“Lyrium?” Cullen looked as if he were hearing about this for the first time.  “You think that Do—that she’s going after our lyrium?  Why?  Don’t they have plenty of their own?”  He looked to Morgan.

She sighed, feeling a pounding headache beginning behind her eyes. “She owns some of the largest mines in the Free Marches.  She had only a small operation in Orlais last I knew.  She’s always looking to expand, but…”  Tilting her head to the side, she shifted until it cracked, then did the same with the other side, running a hand through her sleep tangled hair.  “Leliana, see if you can find anything on the people she brought with her.  I can give you the names of five of them, but the others… I don’t know them.”

Folding her hands behind her back, Leliana nodded. Turning, she paused.  “Your mother left by ship this morning.  I have three of my people on the boat with her.  They will send one raven when halfway across the Waking Sea.”

Morgan sighed quietly in relief; it was one less thing to worry about. “Thank you,” she said, voice slipping back to blank and empty.  “Aunty is a bigot.  She _hates_ hiring anyone but dwarves.  I don’t _want_ to, but we need to keep an eye on any recent dwarf arrivals, a bit more than the others.”  The words made her face twist, hating every syllable and spitting them out as quickly as she could.  A thought occurred to her, and it became a bit harder to remain calm.  “And… fuck.  Female’s with sandy hair in particular.”

Leliana raised one perfect brow. “You have someone in mind?”

Morgan swallowed hard enough that even Cullen noticed. She needed a fucking drink.  “Yes.”  That word came out, but the others stuck in her throat, her mind fighting them.  If she said them out loud, then it might turn out to be true.  “An old—a _former_ —friend.  She could have dyed her hair of course, but… yes.  She was training as an assassin.”

“Do you have any more descriptors? Hair color can be changed, but eye and skin color are much more difficult.  Mages can cast illusions, but I doubt they would work well on a dwarf.”  Leliana glossed over the trepidation Morgan knew was clear on her face.

“Blue eyes. _Very_ blue, like the… the sky.”  Another hard swallow.  “Pale, ruddy complexion.  Small, up-turned nose, long torso and wide hips.”

“Any visible tattoos or scars?”

“N-no. None visible.”

“Thank you, Morgan.” Again, she used that gentle tone of voice, recognizing turmoil in the other rogue.  “I’ll pass on this information.  Is there anything else?”

“I’ll let you know,” Morgan said curtly. She didn’t look up, but heard Leliana leave.  Hinter leaned himself against the side of Morgan’s leg, and she massaged his ears.  Silence settled in, pressing on her ears.  She heard Cullen shift on the opposite side of Willen’s sick-bed.

“Are… are you alright?” he said, surprising her.

When her head looked up, the expression on her face was so open and confused, he was actually slightly taken aback. He’d only seen her like this once before, when the Iron Bull had helped her out of the tent after Haven.  She had stared out at the survivors, and looked so fucking _lost_ that his chest had tightened in sympathy.  He knew the weight she carried, at least somewhat.  The weight of a commander was not an easy one to bear, especially alone.  He felt the urge to reach out, to offer her comfort as she had given him.  Her expression was so raw, and he felt as if he shouldn’t be seeing her so vulnerable, and looked away.

Morgan wanted to deflect. She wanted to put on her mask and make an easy excuse, to put him off the scent of her state of mind.  She knew the steps, what she should do with her face and her voice and her body.  But she couldn’t find the strength to lie, not now.  Even her severe aversion to showing weakness to those she didn’t fully trust seemed gone, all her strength drained.  So she lowered her head as well, letting her hair fall in front of her face in one last attempt at hiding.  “No,” she managed.  “The Inquisition has been put at risk because of _me_.”

That brought Cullen out of his own awkwardness slightly, just enough to bring his head up. “That is _not_ true,” he said, surprising them both with his vehemence.  “You have made nothing but good choices for the Inquisition.  It’s your aunt that’s putting people at risk.  Not _you_.” 

Morgan snuck a look at him through her hair. “But if it wasn’t me, she wouldn’t have a fucking leg to stand on.”

“She doesn’t have one _now_ ,” Cullen pressed, growing more confident.  “She might be able to hurt us a little, but you’ve built us into something strong.  We can take whatever she throws at us.”

The laugh that escaped her was dry and rueful. “You’re going to make me blush, Commander,” she joked. 

Cullen didn’t quite hear her change in tone, and instantly went scarlet himself. “I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!” he said quickly.  “If I spoke out of—”

“Cullen, I’m joking!” Morgan said, looking up with a slightly more genuine smile. “I’m just not used to compliments that aren’t about my body.”  It was hard not to find him adorable, when he looked pointedly _away_ from said body, color still high in his cheeks.

“I-I’m just being honest, Inquisitor,” he muttered.

“I know,” Morgan said, feeling some of her strength returning. She formed her face into a weary smile.  “It means a lot to hear that from you, Cullen.  And please, if we’re not in front of some stuffed shirt, just call me by my name.  Morgan or Cadash; either one works.”

He looked back, studying her face for a long moment, as if trying to read her. But she kept her expression steady.  He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck and allowing himself an awkward half smile.  “I can try.”

Nodding, Morgan smiled again, even if her chest still felt tight and her mind far too full of thoughts. “That’s all I ask.”

 

000

 

Morgan lingered in the infirmary until Sh’vara returned, and the elf instantly swept her up into a tight hug. “Are you alright?” they asked.  “No, that’s stupid, of course you’re not.”  They were frowning so heavily, concern plain in their eyes.  They ushered her over and sat her down on a bench before taking a seat beside her.  “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re even more surrounded by magic than usual?”

Despite the uncomfortable subject-matter, Morgan leaped on the chance to talk about something other than Dorothea. She took a breath, and spilled everything out in one long, half-babbled explanation.  When the words were done, and Sh’vara was staring with wide eyes, Morgan held out her marked hand, reaching towards the candle sitting on the desk beside them.  Closing her eyes, she reached out the way Solas had taught her, tasting the beeswax in the back of her throat, the soft hint of the wick, and finally, the heat of the flame.  A small flicker of orange came to life in her palm, and she opened her eyes again, bringing the floating flame in front of her.

Sh’vara stared at the little ball of fire, its orange glow mixing with the green flicker of the Mark. Their mouth opened and closed several times without a sound.  Morgan closed her hand, and the flame went out.  Brown fingers traced along the Anchor, and she felt magic in the elf’s fingers.  Finally, Sh’vara looked back up, eyes shining with wonder.  “It’s true.  The _durgen’len_ once touched the Fade…  You’re _proof_!”

Morgan didn’t know what to say to that. She’d heard theories from mages across all faiths except perhaps the Chasind.  Granted, no one knew shit about the Chasind except that they seemed not to fear all spirits, closer to Rivaini seers.  Morgan pulled her hand close to her chest.  “I wanted to be a mage when I was small,” she murmured.  “Do you remember?”

Sh’vara smiled. “You saw me heal that fox stuck in the trap.”

“I wanted to be able to help people,” she said. “So far, all I’ve had luck with is fire, and I may or may not have thrown Bull and Willen across my room.  Bull was on accident.  I saw Willen pull daggers when Hinter charged him.”

“Healing is particularly hard,” Sh’vara said, laying a comforting hand on Morgan’s knee. “I’ve always had the gift for it, and not much else.  Who knows what kind of mage you are.”

“Mage, hah!” Morgan’s laugh was dry and shaky.  “You say that so easily.”

“Well, you can use magic, yes?” they said, raising a brow.

“Well…”

“That makes you a mage, Morgan.”

Morgan had thought the word, of course. But to have someone say it _back_ , _believing_ it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world…  It was both terrifying and exhilarating.  She had power at her fingertips, but it was dangerous, so dangerous that those born with such power were hated and feared.  So feared that a _war_ had begun when they no longer wanted live as slaves and prisoners.  She took several long, deep breaths.  “Teach me about healing,” she finally said, looking her friend straight in the eye, jaw pushed out in her trademark stubborn determination.  All Sh’vara could do was smile.

 

000

 

As she left the infirmary, the comfort of Sh’vara’s presence began to fall away. Feelings pressed in on her; worry and anger tangling in equal measure.  Anxiety remained in the background, making her long for the numbing buzz of alcohol.  She had come to care so damn much about everyone, and it _hurt_ to know that they were in trouble.  Cullen could say that it was Dorothea’s fault all he wanted, but she never would have fucking tried if it hadn’t been for Morgan.  Guilt was added to the mix, and she was back in her room with a glass of whiskey in her hands before she was really aware of making a decision.

She stared at the amber liquid, fragmented through the cut crystal of the glass. She _knew_ that she shouldn’t.  But everything had been so hard, so fucking painful…  She was strong all the time; why couldn’t she have a moment of weakness?  Morgan hated herself after the first gulp, and hurled both glass and bottle over the balcony, not even thinking that it might crash into the gardens below.  She wanted to drink so badly that it scared her.  Hinter trotted over, head low as he sat down and leaned against her while she cowered in the corner.  He let her bury her face in his neck and sob, not caring about the snot and tears that wet his fur.

“I don’t deserve you,” Morgan mumbled. The sound of someone knocking rapidly on her door made her jump, head snapping up.  A string of muffled words came from behind the door, and then it opened.

“Hooks?” It was Varric.  Maker, help her, she didn’t want him to see her like this.

“Fuuuuck!” she groaned into Hinter’s neck. She heard footsteps drawing closer, and felt Hinter’s tail give a few swings as someone crouched before them. 

“Maker’s balls, Hooks, are you okay?”

“Go away, Varric,” Morgan said, not looking up.

A large, gentle hand laid on her shoulder, and didn’t move when she tensed up. “Not until you answer me,” he said gently. 

“I’m fine. Go away.”

“Liar.” It was all he said, his hand on her shoulder giving a soft reassuring squeeze. 

He wasn’t Bull, but he was still her friend. She might not have _owed_ him an explanation, but it still touched her that he had cared enough to come looking for her.  He’d done nothing to mask his urgency either, just barging in when she didn’t answer the door.  Even if she would have preferred being alone, it still mattered that he cared enough to ignore her.  She knew that if she insisted, he would leave her alone.  She lifted red-rimmed eyes and Varric’s chest tightened.

“Sorry, Hooks. I should’ve seen this coming.  I shou—”

“Leliana and Bull didn’t see it, and they’re spies as their profession, not as a side job,” Morgan said, hoping not to hurt his feelings. “Aunty’s good at this.  Been doing it longer than some of us have been alive.”

“None of that makes this shit alright,” Varric said, brows coming together. “And is she stupid?!  How the hell does she think she’s going to pull this off?”

She had to look away again, shame creeping back. “Because I’m scared of her,” she said, the admission coming out in a tiny, nearly child-like voice.  “She fucking terrifies me and she _knows_ it.”  For a moment, she saw anger on the other dwarf’s face, and felt a trickle of fear going down her spine.  Even if it wasn’t at her, seeing _Varric_ , of all people, angry… it was damn near terrifying.  And men… angry men had always scared her.  But suddenly, all she could think about was how he had been there for her throughout it all, the first one to ask if she was okay when she awoke in Haven.  She took another few deep breaths, then tilted her head up to look at him.  “I’m gonna show you something, and it’ll probably piss you off, but it’ll explain things.  At least a little.  I think.”

The anger faded, and he blinked at her, brows furrowing again. Confusion entered his eyes, tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “Okay?”

Withdrawing from Hinter, Morgan got to her feet. Varric followed, and she turned, putting her back to him.  She thought it would be awkward, rucking up her sleeping shift to expose most of the back of her body to him.  But after bathing and changing on the road together for so long that the modesty seemed silly.  Still, she felt color on her cheeks as she exposed the scars.  She held on a moment longer after his quick intake of breath, then let go, letting the hem fall back and turning to face him.  Her raw, wet eyes were full of vulnerability and trepidation at such a show of trust.  “Aun—Dorothea did that.  Personally.”

Varric waffled between rage and horror, struggling not to just drag the other rogue into a tight embrace. But he saw the hesitation in her face, the fear of rejection after exposing herself.  It dawned on him just how few people she had probably showed those monstrous scars to, and something twisted in his chest, reminding him of quiet, personal moments in Kirkwall; just a few friends around for drinks, trading stories that, over time, grew more personal.  Morgan had just dumped something huge in his lap, and he’d rather walk the Fade forever than betray the trust that she had just shown him.

“Sooo, you planning on taking Tiny up on his offer?” he finally said, awkward despite his determination.

The tension relaxed slightly, and Morgan snorted. “Is he telling _everyone_ what he wants to do to her?”

“He’s certainly not making it a secret,” Varric muttered. He eyed her for a moment, thinking.  “He cares about you.”

“He’s a good friend,” Morgan agreed easily. But there was color in her cheeks, and Varric wondered if he might actually have to make good on his threat to the qunari.

“Shit, Hooks, this is gonna be awkward. Look, you and Tiny…”

“Well, fuck…” She looked far cuter than she had any right to be; the dread Inquisitor blushing like a maid.

“Yeah… just… be careful, I guess?” He resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck like Curly did when he was nervous.  “I like having the both of you around, and if one of you starts wanting more than the other, well…”

Morgan felt a bit annoyed, but mostly touched at his concern. She shoved her own confusing thoughts about Bull down deep, where they belonged, and laughed.  “Qunari don’t do romance, Varric.  Sex, sure.  But they don’t… pair off.”

“Dwarves do.”

His words cut down to those tangled feelings, laying them open like a wound, and it took all of Morgan’s strength not to lash out at Varric. She bit the inside of her cheek, _hard_.  “Maybe.  But _I_ don’t.”  Her words were more clipped than she meant them to be, but she bit back an apology.

“I know. Just worried.”  He held up his hands.  “I won’t interfere anymore, I promise.”

The anger dissolved.  “You’re mother hens, the lot of you.  Everyone is so concerned!”  She rolled her eyes and threw up her hands like it was annoying, but she had never had anyone beyond her real mother care for her so much without question.  They all took for granted that since she was their friend, she was well worth protecting. 

They had decided that _she_ was worth facing one of the most cunning Carta Matriarchs in a century.  And she knew she would risk it, too.  No matter what Dorothea had done, no matter how scared Morgan was, she wouldn’t let the bitch touch her friends.  They were worth more than all the gold in Ferelden and Orlais, and Maker help anyone that tried to hurt them.

 

000

 

Bull was fuming. He was long practiced at controlling his anger, it measuring it and letting it out only in battle, and only directed at those that deserved it.  But this fucking dwarf…  His voice was a bit sharper than usual during drills with the Chargers, his moves just a touch more powerful.  That pissed him off anew, the fact that the old bitch could shake him so.  He knew, of course, that it wasn’t _just_ Dorothea.  It was Morgan.  She was _hurting_ , and this wasn’t a hurt he could soothe, or talk her through. 

It rankled, taking up the role, but being unable to fulfil it. He knew she would be busy, and glimpsed her a few times on the wall with one or two of the advisors.  She looked down towards the tavern and the training yard every time.  Was she searching for him?  She saw him a few times, and even at a distance, he imagined she smiled a little.  He hoped she did, but it was unlikely.  He’d visited the infirmary after she’d left, and had seen the damage done to Willen.  He wasn’t in good shape, but he was still breathing.  So it was _something_.

The temptation to reach out to his own contacts to see if _they_ knew anything had taken up permanent residence in the back of his mind.  But having them go out of their way for something that was of a definitely personal nature, without proof of a direct threat to the Inquisition…  He knew it wasn’t an option, and was angry at himself for even thinking of it.  But… But it would be so damn easy to just slip word to someone, call in a few favors and get rid of the matriarch.  It would be so laughably fucking _easy_ , and Morgan would be free.  At least a little.

For the second time, the word floated up to him, sure and solid and an almost perfect descriptor for what Morgan had become to him. But it somehow fell short.  She was a comrade in arms, without a doubt, and had become a friend he knew he would think fondly of for the rest of his days, whatever happened after the Inquisition.  But somehow, the word didn’t fit her as it did Krem and the others.  He knew that there were other ways that those who spoke the common tongue would interpret the word’s translation. The moment those ideas occurred to him, he shoved them aside.  Such thing were not for people like him, they didn’t happen under the Qun.  Well, they _did_ , but it always ended in tragedy.

 _Always_ , he reminded himself, and put the word from his mind.

 

000

 

Morgan was not surprised when Dorothea brought up the subject of lyrium during a slow tour of Skyhold. The other dwarf casually asked how they were managing to supply so many mages and former Templars, and if they were sure they had enough.

“We have been doing well. There are a few Chantry merchants working with us, as well as some others,” Morgan said, hands folded behind her back.  Cassandra and Josephine walked with them, as well as two of Dorothea’s guards.  Both were men that Morgan had known, though not particularly well.

“Yes, you’ve been using some of your old Carta contacts,” Dorothea said.

“My contacts don’t just sell to the Carta, Aunty,” Morgan reminded her. “I’m not moving in on your territory.”

“Of course not, my dear. But I was thinking…”  Morgan didn’t have to look back to know the look spreading across the older woman’s face.  She had sat through enough negotiations, and knew the woman better than Dorothea realized.  “You could be doing much better.  I would be happy to strike a contract with the Inquisition.”

Yes, there it was. “That is a very gracious offer, Aunty,” Morgan said, stopping on the wall and turning to face the older woman.  Her heart was pounding, knowing that the moment had finally come.  “But it would cost you dearly to bring the lyrium over the Waking Sea, and your operations here are… lacking.”  Her anger had risen so high that she able to surge past her fear.

“Oh, I’m sure that could be changed with your… influence.”

The glint in her eyes sent a trickle of fear down Morgan’s spine, but she pushed past it. “If you wish to buy the rights to a lyrium mine, or go searching for an unclaimed vein, you can, of course, do so,” she said, remembering her diplomacy lessons with Josephine.  “But, unfortunately, I will not be able to secure those rights _for_ you.  We have what we need.”

Dorothea’s expression soured slightly. “Are you certain?  I feel you would be at a… _disadvantage_ without my support.”  While her voice was full of concern, she looked at Morgan with hard eyes, her meaning clear. 

“We have managed thus far,” Morgan said firmly.

“I would just hate to see some unforeseen circumstances interrupt your supply line,” Dorothea responded, all concern and warning. “Losing access to lyrium would surely be devastating for your army.”

“I’m sure it would,” Morgan said cooly, Josephine’s eyes approving and Cassandra’s sharp. “But you must remember, that we are not so easily defeated. _I_ am not easily defeated.  I am not the quiet girl that bent to your will so easily, Aunty.”  Fear hammered in her veins, instinct demanding she shut her mouth and be _silent_.  But no.  Never again.  “The Inquisition is strong, and we can survive whatever misfortune throws at us.”

“I do hope you’re right, my dear,” Dorothea lied, offering what looked be a reassuring smile.

Behind her, for just a moment, Morgan saw Josephine’s eyes flash, prompting Morgan to give a smile of her own, turning it to one of gratitude in sight of Dorothea. “I appreciate your concern, Aunty.  You always did think of others.”  She lied through her teeth with as much skill as any bard, knowing that if the clan matriarch hadn’t already had something planned, she certainly would now. 

 

000

 

It was late afternoon before Morgan was able to pull herself away from official business and look for Bull. She’d seen him once or twice from the battlements, but missed his presence at her side.  She felt tired and drained, as if she’d spent the entire day going up and down every stair and step in the castle.  She wanted to sit and speak with her friends, to come down from the high planes of duty and nobility and just be _Morgan_. 

Her arrival at the Herald’s Rest was greeted with the usual shouts and waves, but notice soon left her as she drifted back to her usual place near the back of the lower floor. People talked of course, some of them bitter that their beloved Herald spent so much time with a company of mercenaries.  She had heard the insults whispered among the soldiers, and had quietly seen to them having latrine duty for the next week.  There was as much, if not more bitterness towards the Wardens, but there had yet to be any fighting.

Seeing the outline of Bull’s horns through the stairs brought a flood of relief. Forcing herself to ignore the bar, she kept walking.  It would be easier to talk to him alone, of course, without people looking and wondering.  But as long as no one saw either of them creeping back from the other’s room in the wee hours, she didn’t care. 

He lifted his head at her approach, and offered her a small smile. The knot between her shoulders eased just a bit.  His presence alone was a sort of balm, and her smiling face was weary and open as she sat down.  She was within his reach, but not so close as to appear overly friendly.  Even if she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and just pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.  But she was forced to content herself with silence for the moment, shaking her head when he pushed a glass towards her.

“It’s water,” Bull said, voice soft amid the growing tavern hubbub.

She eyed him curiously; she had never told him about her struggles with drinking, for all that she trusted him. It was more shame than a lack of trust anyway.  But she smiled again and accepted the drink, draining it all in one go.  Then she sagged in her chair.  “I’d really love to be in the Hinterlands fighting bears right about now,” she muttered, earning an honest laugh from Bull.

It was good to hear her joking. “See, now I _know_ you had a shitty day.  You hate bears.”

“Bears are simple,” Morgan said, accepting another glass of water from the small pitcher. “They either want to be left alone, or to chomp on your skull.  That’s easy.  They don’t _want_ anything from you.”  She glowered into the glass this time, drinking more slowly.

“That’s why you like animals, isn’t it?” he said.

“They’re better than people,” Morgan said instantly. Then the corner of her mouth twitched as she watched him over the glass.  “Most people, anyways.  You’re tolerable company.”

Bull snorted. “How kind of you,” he mocked, rolling his eye.  She shook her head and her eyes drifted away from him, starring off at some point beyond him, probably not really seeing anything.  His smile wavered.  “You okay, Morgan?” his voice was, low enough that only she would hear. 

Instantly, Morgan felt exposed, like he was seeing right through her as clearly as Cole did. Her shoulders hunched, and she lowered her eyes to the floor.  “I told her ‘no’ today,” she said finally.

“She yell?” He knew Morgan hated yelling, and it was hard not to teach out and give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Morgan shook her head. “No.  She said she hoped nothing happened to our lyrium supply lines.  So… she’s probably going to do something to them.”  She gave a quick summary of the conversation, and the subsequent discussions with Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen. 

“Sure hope you’ve upped security on the stores,” Bull said. He was sure Red was already on it, but he still frowned.

Nodding, Morgan put the glass down on the table, picking at the dirt under her short nails. “Yes, Leliana was organizing—”

**_BOOM!_ **

The ground rocked under them, glasses toppling from tables and shattering on the floor. There was screaming, and Morgan felt Bull’s hand on her arm as they both forced their way out into the courtyard.  Smoke billowed, and the familiar smell of lyrium cut the air like lightning.  Terror settled into Morgan’s rattled bones, eyes following the pillar of smoke to the door set into the wall.  The wood of the door had been thrown across the yard, metal fittings strewn among the splinters. 

Then she heard screaming. Not just in fear, but _pain_.  People were hurt.  Wrenching from Bull’s grip, Morgan tore across the yard, yanking her scarf up over her nose and mouth.  She reached the smoking doorway with several soldiers.  They did the same as her, using handkerchiefs and rags.  She grabbed one of the younger ones by the elbow.  “Alert the mages, get all the healers we have!  Go!”  The young man nodded and ran to do as he was bid. 

Feeling a huge presence at her elbow, Morgan looked to Bull. One of the ridiculous pink handkerchiefs was tied around his face, eye narrowed.  But there was no time to laugh, no time to think.  She could hear people clearly now, crying out for help.  She, Bull, and three large soldiers charged down the steps to the lyrium vaults.  As they went, she called out instructions, knowing that the rest of the lyrium could be destabilized as well.

There were more guards in the vaults than usual, plus several mages that had been down to secure more lyrium for their potions. One of the mages had drawn a guard and two of her students into a glowing barrier.  She had kept the rocks from crushing them through sheer force of will, as a cut above her eye bled heavily.  Morgan didn’t know when Vivienne appeared, practically popping out of thin air to lend a hand.

The smoke and lyrium burnt Morgan’s eyes and lungs despite her precautions, but that didn’t stop her from carrying a man more than twice her size out into the air. It was Cullen that took the man from her, and before he could say a word, Morgan had rushed back inside.  Vivienne and Bull were working together to get the rocks off of one of the guards, and Morgan’s stomach lurched as she saw the crushed remains of the woman’s legs.  Without missing a beat, Vivienne encased the woman’s legs in ice, stopping the bleeding instantly.  Bull passed her to a team with a stretcher, and she was rushed out. 

As Morgan rounded a corner and stepped into the next section of vaults, her heart leaped into a throat. She knew those broken horns.  Her cry made her cough and choke on the thick air, but she rushed to Asala’s side all the same.  When she dropped down, she realized that the Vashoth wasn’t alone.  Asala had put Minaeve’s smaller body under hers, taking the brunt of the explosion.  Neither of them were moving, but both were breathing.  Terror and hatred raced in Morgan’s veins, and she screamed for help.  Bull came to her, shouldering Asala’s heavier frame while Morgan pulled Minaeve into her arms.

More mages were coming down, using their power to snuff out fires and sources of smoke. Dwarves rushed in as well, those that knew enough about lyrium to be properly careful, and how to contain the volatile mineral.  Morgan’s vision was swimming by the time she reached the top of the steps again.  She felt the weight of Minaeve lifted from her, and panicked before she saw her being carried by Cassandra. 

With her stomach able to take no more of the acrid fumes, Morgan tore her scarf from her face and managed to stagger away from the main crowd before she emptied her stomach. Even after it was empty her body continued to retch, making her cough and spit and eventually fall to her knees.  Moments later, another, smaller explosion shook the ground, and Morgan staggered back to her feet.  Slender arms came quickly around her, pulling her back with laughable ease.

“You need to stop, _da’len_ ,” Sh’vara whispered, putting a cool hand on Morgan’s sweat-soaked brow, the dwarf’s struggles weakening.  “You’re hurt, and your magic is dangerously close to running out of control.” 

Their words were soft, but they somehow cut through the haze, touching on the urgency that Solas had been working hard to teach her. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus beyond the burning of her lungs and eyes, seeking the Mark with her mind’s eye.  It was burning, her rage turned to fire, looking for a target.  She whimpered, grabbing at her left wrist and feeling the skin hot to the touch.  As she crumpled, Sh’vara followed, coming to crouch in front of her, cupping her face in her hands. 

“Breathe, Morgan,” they murmured. “There are people here that need your help.  There are no enemies to burn.  You need to protect these people.”

Morgan forced her eyes open, shoving her hands to the earth, digging her fingers into the dirt, feeling grass tear between her fingers and dirt sink under her nails. She took in huge shuddering breaths of the smoke-tinged air.  She stared over Sh’vara’s shoulder, watching people— _her_ people—milling around.  No.  There was no one to burn.  Not yet.  Instead of fire, she reached into earth with that strange tugging awareness, tasting the dirt and grass in the back of her mouth.  Everything below was calm and slow, dormant insects and even a family of moles.  Then her mind touched the mountain, feeling the ancient stone sing with trace veins of lyrium.  It was untouched and calm, though it resonated softly.

When she came back to herself, the grass was thick and lush around where she and Sh’vara crouched. The smell of earth and growing things lingered in her lungs and at the back of her mouth.  Rising to her feet, she stumbled only once.  Her eyes had just found Bull again, using him as an anchor, when she saw him fall, something red glinting in the back of his neck before his hand flew to cover it.  Sound dropped away, Morgan’s eyes snapping to the side as a figure darted up the stairs towards the battlements.

Sh’vara saw a flash of fire, and energy rolled off Morgan in waves. “Help Bull!”  The world twisted around her, and she flew across the yard at unnatural speed, appearing at the base of the steps.  The elf gaped at the Fade Step for just a moment before she did the same, appearing at Bull’s side and swatting his hand away. 

Whatever had propelled Morgan to the stairs left her there, and she ran up under her own power. There was nothing beyond the person running in front of her, and the fire burning in her left hand.  She would _kill_ them.  They would fucking _burn_.

**_‘I could burn them all, you know. You’d just have to let me in.’_ **

The voice was soft, gentle, and reassuring, echoing softly in her head.

**_‘Let me in, and all your enemies will burn to ashes.’_ **

But it wasn’t her own voice. Even so full of rage, Morgan knew the voice of her own mind.  It didn’t speak to her gently, it didn’t coax her.  It _demanded_.  Whatever spoke to her now, it was a _demon_.  “No!” she snarled, legs pounding up the steps, thighs burning.

**_‘You can’t catch them. They’ll get away and try again.  Let me in, and I’ll burn every single enemy in the castle, all of them at once…’_ **

Sulfur welled up in the back of her throat, and her vision spun. Heat washed through her, as powerful and encompassing as her anger.  A rage demon.  Bull’s face filled her mind, and she knew that if she let the demon in, he would never touch her again.  Sera would run screaming.  Hinter would cry and howl. _“No. No no no!  I won’t let you in!  My mind is fucked, but it’s fucking MINE!”_

A shock wave snapped through the courtyard, and Cullen saw the figure of the Inquisitor crumple on the steps, dropping out of sight as whoever she had been pursuing vanished into the gardens. There were many ways into the castle from there, and even Cullen knew that no one could get there in time.  He cursed aloud as he hurried up the steps, calling two soldiers and one of the mages up after him.  Even without the lyrium, some of his abilities remained, and the moment he saw Morgan hunched over and trembling on the steps, he knew what she had fought and banished.  Her face was nearly white under her freckles as he gathered her into his arms.

“Bull,” she croaked. “Where’s Bull?”  Her hand rose and clung weakly to the fur of Cullen’s coat, the thick strands sliding through her fingers.  “Asala.  Minaeve, they—”

“They’re alright,” Cullen lied. He didn’t know.  Bull was being taken care of by Sh’vara, but he knew no more than that.  He didn’t know what had happened to the apprentice and the Vashoth mages.  He didn’t even really know what had _happened_.  What he _did_ know, was that it had shaken Morgan enough that a _demon_ decided she was a worthy target.  Her left hand found the top of his breastplate, her fingers brushing his skin.  The skin was far hotter than it had any right to be, and with everything else that he was feeling from her…  He might not have been a Templar any longer, but he knew a mage when he faced one.

 

000

 

Morgan felt proud. For once, she was aware of being carried to the healer, and aware of being laid in the bed.  And when she _did_ doze and wake, she remembered what had happened to put her in the infirmary.  Her left hand felt like it had been held over hot coals for hours, and she curled it in closer to her body, groaning.  Feeling movement beside her, Morgan saw a blurry red shirt and broad shoulders, and a darker figure standing beyond.  Blinking a few times, she recognized Varric’s back, and then his voice, low and angry.

“You’re not taking another step.”

“My niece was hurt in—”

“I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re going to leave. Now.” 

Shit. Varric was scary when he was angry.  Morgan tried not to make noise as she eased into a sitting positon, but every inch of her felt tight and achy.  A small noise escaped her, instantly drawing the other dwarves’ attention.  Varric was at her side in an instant, one hand at her back and his low, calming voice in her ear. 

“Easy, Hooks.” His hand rubbed slow circles on her back.  But her eyes rolled past him, zeroing in on the gray-haired old woman.  Varric followed her gaze, and the edge returned to his voice.  “I _said_ you need to _leave_ ,” he growled.

“I have more right to be here than _you_ , Tethras!” Dorothea spat.  “I’m family.”

Thoroughly done with pretending, Morgan opened her mouth to snarl a dismissal. Instead, a low, menacing growl emanated from beneath her bed, and Dorothea’s face paled.  She backed away slowly as the big dog unfolded from under the cot, lips pulled back and his hair standing on end.  His head was low, body bunched and tight, ready to spring.  But he waited, ears pricked for his master’s voice.

“Send that beast away!” the old woman snapped, though the fear managed to leak into her voice.

Morgan’s own lip curled. “Yes, I believe I shall,” she spat.  “Dorothea Cadash, _leave_.”  She was too angry to understand why the woman looked confused before she became angry.  Without taking his eyes from the other dwarf, Hinter backed up and put his body within reach of Morgan’s touch.  And so they stood, all of them staring down the clan matriarch.  Morgan knew that Hinter would rip out her throat if she only gave the word, and no one could stop her. 

None would stand against her if she called on what little magic she controlled and burnt the old woman to a crisp. The power hung there, as tempting as ripe fruit.  But she left it unpicked, glaring at Dorothea with the hatred that had been festering for years.  That was what Dorothea was, not her. _She_ was the one that killed and hurt without thought, not Morgan.  Morgan would not burn the forest to chop down a single tree.

“We shall speak later,” Dorothea said stiffly, and, with a quick breath to steady herself, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the infirmary.

The moment the door closed behind her, Morgan felt her limbs turn to water, and she dropped back down onto the cot. Almost instantly, Hinter was covering her face in kisses, the slimy underside of his tongue leaving her cheeks wet.  Varric let out a heavy breath, and his shoulders slumped slightly.  He couldn’t help but smile, looking down at the face that had, just a moment ago, been contorted in rage.  Now it was half obscured by a giant mabari head, hands flailing weakly as Morgan giggled.

Finally satisfied, Hinter laid his head on her stomach, tail thumping slowly. “Sometimes I think I might understand the appeal of dogs,” he said, reaching down to ruffle the dog’s ears.

“How’s Bull?” Morgan asked without preamble. She was in one of the solitary rooms, reserved for the more grievously injured, so she didn’t know if he was still in the infirmary.  Panic tightened her chest, and she had to swallow a lump in her throat.  If something had happened to him…

“Puking his guts up, probably, but Tiny’s _alive_ ,” Varric said, dropping back into the chair that was set beside her cot.  “The dart that hit him was poisoned, but he said something about a built-up immunity and I didn’t ask.”

Relief turned quickly to anger. “Did they catch them?” she demanded, not bothering to elaborate.  A shadow passed over Varric’s face, and Morgan scowled.  “Fuck!”  She thumped a fist into the blankets, then passed the hand over her face.  “Thank you,” she finally said.

“It was either that, or let your friend here rip her throat out. Figured we didn’t need to waste the soap it would take to clean her blood off the floor.”  He said it so casually, with an easy roll of his shoulders.

Rolling onto her side, Morgan kissed Hinter between the eyes. “I’m glad you did; she’d have just given him a stomach ache.”  It was oddly easy to speak badly of Dorothea, as if simply suspecting her of the sabotage removed the fear and hesitation that had lingered in her mind.  The fog of past experiences had lifted, burned by the fire of the Inquisition, of the woman that Morgan had grown into since the last time she encountered ‘Aunty’.  It wouldn’t last, Morgan knew.  There had been moments like this with her father, before she knew him for what he was.  She would be convinced she’d be mad at him forever, but then he would say or do something kind, and she would forgive.  Until the next time.  There had always been a next time.

Her left hand still felt warmer than the other, and she knew it would take only a small tweak at the possibilities of the world to bring flame to life in her palm. The knowledge scared and thrilled her.  “Varric?”  She let his name hang, waiting for him to look back at her.

When he did, he looked tired, and she realized that there was soot clinging to his hair and clothes, streaked at his temple where he’d been sweating. “Yeah, Hooks?” he sighed.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was small, and as she sat up again, she made sure that her hair slid forward to cover her face, eyes staring at the covers. 

_Your fault your fault your fault your Fucking FAULT!!_

The words beat against the inside of her skull over and over, tangled with the rage at Dorothea. If some other sod had survived the conclave, if someone _else_ had been stupid enough to go snooping and walk in on Coryphaeus’s fucking ritual, none of this would be happening. _“If I had just_ died _…”_ Morgan shook her head, trying to toss away the dangerous and familiar thoughts.  She didn’t _want_ to die, not really.  She understood that she was important now, even if she didn’t feel worthy of that importance.

“There’s only one person who owes any apology about this,” Varric said. “Maybe two.  But neither of them are you.”

“But if I had just barred the gate to her—”

“She’d have snuck someone in to cause the same sort of trouble,” he cut in. “That’s all on _her_ , and I’ll keep telling you that till I’m blue in the face.”  He said it with such finality, that even Morgan, argumentative by nature, couldn’t think of a thing to say.  He believed every word he said completely and absolutely, without even an inch of room for doubt.

“Varric…” She faltered, the words sticking in her throat.  But he waited patiently, and she continued.  “You were in the Fade with us, and you… you know what happened to me.  Do you… do you think that I might still be chosen?”  Her voice was quiet, soft and hesitant, clearly braced for laughter or some form of rebuke.  “Like she made sure I was the one that interrupted Corypheus…?”  She trailed off, biting her lip and finally daring to look up at him.

Varric rubbed his jaw, avoiding her gaze. “Shit, this is gonna be awkward.”  He saw her face fall, and that forced him to stop stalling.  “Look, I’m not good at this whole… disciplehood thing.  Been friends with heroes before, but you…”  He looked at her and smiled, but the look in his eyes was sad, and Morgan felt her own heart clench.  “You’ve done so many impossible things, it’s really, _really_ hard not to think there’s some… divine hand in all this weird shit.  I mean, _I_ couldn’t have come up with it.”  He rubbed the back of his head, and it actually looked like there was some extra color in his tanned face.  “One or two impossible things are fine, but piling them all together…  I mean, maybe you _are_ chosen.  I don’t _know_ , like down in my soul, or anything, but…  But I know you’re… special.”

Despite her best efforts, Morgan felt a lump rise in her throat, and tears sting her eyes. “Varric…”

“No, no don’t do that!” he rushed, reaching over to pat her shoulder awkwardly. “Cause if you start crying, _I’ll_ start crying, and nobody wants to see that.  Big red face and sounding like somebody stepped on a nug.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, wiping at her eyes. “You haven’t seen ugly crying until you see me,” she said, grinning.  “Snot and tears everywhere and I start this high-pitched whiney voice.”

Varric’s laugh echoed hers, nervous but relieved to be bypassing such heavy feelings. Jokes and self-depreciation were infinitely easier.  As Morgan peeled back the light blanket and put her feet on the floor, he came out of his chair, grasping her elbow and helping her to her feet.  There was only a brief moment of unsteadiness before she was able to straighten up.  Hinter was instantly at her other side, body under her hand and ready to catch her if she stumbled.  She smiled at both of them in turn before she walked towards the door.  She had only just reached for the handle when the door was yanked open. 

It was Dorian. “Why is she still in the castle?” he demanded, hands balled into fists and resting on his hips.  When Morgan blinked uncertainly at him, he waved a hand in the general direction of the exit.  “Your _aunt!_ _Why_ hasn’t the spymaster evicted her from the premises?  Or better yet, from the country!”  As a fond smile spread across Morgan’s face, he quickly began to backtrack.  “Her mess has set me _months_ back in my experiments.  Do you know how long I’d had that undead nug running around?  Six months!  And not a single sign of decomposition!  Now, it’s so much ground meat!”

“ _Sure_ , Sparkler,” Varric chuckled, not at all trying to hide his smile.  “You’re just worried about your necromancy.” 

Dorian huffed. “Well, it certainly doesn’t seem right to keep her around.  She’s a danger to everyone.”

“Not until we catch who tried to kill Bull,” Morgan said, her smile dropping instantly. “You don’t attack my…friends.”  She didn’t know why the word made her falter, or why it suddenly didn’t seem to fit Bull the same way it had.  She shook her head again, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “You don’t attack the Inquisition and just get away.  I assume Leliana has barred anyone and everyone from leaving?”

“Yes, and raised the ire of several self-important merchants,” Dorian said. “They can’t seem to grasp that the safety of the people might be just a tad more important than them getting to their next appointment.”

As they filed out into the corridor, Varric snorted. “They’re from the Merchant’s Guild, Sparkler,” he said.  “There is _nothing_ more important than the next sale.”  Dorian’s only response was a disdainful sniff.

“Where’s Bull?” Morgan asked, coming to a stop. She could hear the bustle of the main ward, filled with muffled voices and chatter.  “Is he in the main ward or a room?”  She started walking again, peering through unlocked doors.

The two men watched her for a moment, then a glance passed between the two. “He’s finally stopped throwing up, so he can probably accept visitors,” Dorian said, sweeping up beside Morgan and starting to steer her with a light hand on her back.  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the mixture of relief and trepidation, and the hand lifted to her shoulder to offer a reassuring squeeze.  “None of this is your fault, of course,” he said casually, at odds with his comforting gesture.  “Just a bunch of pig-headed idiots that don’t know what they’ve stepped in.  We’ll soon sort that, won’t we?”

Dorian felt the surge of magical power in the woman beside him, different from the burst before in the courtyard. This was carefully controlled, cold instead of fiery.  She had been very different since Adamant, and with her spending more time in Solas’ company only made him more certain that his theory was correct.  Then Morgan was looking up at him, and her usually warm, hazel-green eyes were as cold and sharp as honed steel.  “Yes,” she said softly, in a voice that was eerily similar to a certain blonde, female magister that he had known growing up, full of cold calculation and certainty.  “We will.”

 

000

 

Bull was in the main ward, but the curtains had been drawn on either side of his bed. The cot was much too small for him, so he sat on the edge, hunched over a fresh bucket.  His faced was drawn and tired, though annoyance lingered in the furrowing of his brows and the corners of his mouth.  He heard the soft rhythm of boots and the click of claws on the stone, and lifted his aching head.  Morgan resisted the urge to run to him, to fling her arms around him and hug him tightly, again making sure that he was still with her, still alive.

“You look like shit, Tiny,” Varric said, shaking his head.

Hinter crept forward tentatively, keeping his bulk low and wagging his tail. Bull lifted a hand and stroked the dog’s neck as Hinter laid his head on his knee.  Morgan came next, her eyes lingering on the bandage at the back of his neck, the pad of fabric secured by ties around his throat.  “Are you…?” she trailed off, struggling to hide the worry on her face.  Her hands plucked at the ties of her tunic collar.

“I won’t say I’m good, but I’ll be fine soon,” he said, shrugging slowly. The motion made his headache worse, and he swore under his breath.  “Feel hungover as shit, though.”  Morgan didn’t bother to hide her relief, and her face broke into a beaming smile.  But then it was Bull’s turn to be worried.  “Are _you_ okay, Boss?”  Cullen had said something about demons, but he didn’t know if Morgan had told Dorian or Varric, so he kept that part to himself.  Demons _terrified_ him, and imagining Morgan facing an attack on her mind filled him with a vicarious fear on her behalf.

There was something more in his eye, searching her face, like he knew what had happened. Still terrified of what he would think of her, Morgan’s eyes briefly flicked away.  Her mind spun with all the horrible things that Bull could be thinking of her now, and she struggled to drag herself out.  The concern on his face never wavered, waiting patiently for her response.  Finally, she was able to take a breath and nod.  “I’ve been much worse, and the headache should go away soon, I hope.”

Bull muted the massive wave of relief that washed through him, his face offering only a pleased smile. “Good.  Now…” He rested his hands on his knees.  “ _Please_ , tell me I get to toss that bitch over a balcony.”

“You’re going to have to get in line,” Dorian huffed. “I’m more in favor of setting her on _fire_.  Or maybe reanimating her corpse and making her dance along the rooftops.” 

Morgan’s smile was genuine and unrestrained. “As much as I feel the same, we can’t act without concrete proof.  We’re not Orlesians that start feuds on rumor and happenstance.”

“Just who else do you think could have done this?” the mage huffed.

“No one,” Morgan said, letting herself sit on the edge of Bull’s bed, on the other side of Hinter. “Sabotaging the competition is something she’s done or had done many times before.  The thing with you, Bull, that could be her, too, but I’m less sure.  I’m assuming you have enemies?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Rival mercs, rivals of people we’ve worked for that hold grudges…”  He trailed off with a slow shrug of his shoulders.

“Right. Anyways, I’m not going to go after Dorothea until we have undeniable proof that it was her, or someone acting under her orders.  I’m tempted to say we’ll use any means to get it, but I won’t lie, and blood magic is out of the question.”

“I don’t need blood magic to make people talk, Boss,” Bull said quietly. He didn’t meet her eyes, and suddenly found himself full of concern for what she would think of him now.  Torture wasn’t a thing he enjoyed, hated it even.  But it had been… deemed necessary, and back then, he hadn’t had it in him to think beyond the orders he’d been given.  What would she think of him, given what she had endured?

Before, at the beginning, Morgan might have shied away from Bull from such an admission. But she _knew_ him now, and even if his face was calm and impassive, she didn’t miss the way his eye flicked quickly in her direction.  She played it off.  “I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.  This place is crawling with spies and observant people.  Someone will have seen something.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the word Bull is thinking is Kadan. It has multiple meanings in Qunlat, so I definitely see him as seeing Krem and the Chargers all as Kadan. Morgan is something different to him, MORE than just a comrade, and he's struggling with that, because you know the Qun would go out of its way to discourage romance and pairing off.
> 
> This story arc was supposed to be just one chapter, but when I made my page count, I still had a lot more to go. I want to let you know that each time one of you comments, even just a few words, it really makes my day, and encourages me to work harder so that you can continue to enjoy my work!


	24. The Carta Gets Its Cut, Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This came out a lot faster than anticipated, but I'm quite happy with it.

 

The Carta Gets Its Cut, Pt 2:

 

When he was well enough to take more than a few steps without his stomach trying to turn itself inside out, Bull refused to leave Morgan’s side. And Morgan didn’t argue.  Leliana smiled, and the other advisors agreed that it was a smart idea.  He _was_ her bodyguard, after all.  They hadn’t thought to need him inside the walls of their own keep, but now that they did, there was no question, especially from those that knew him to be Ben-Hassrath, or that had fought at his side out in the field.  A bed was even brought up for him in her quarters, as impropriety took second chair when it came to the Inquisitor’s safety.  They didn’t have to know that Bull wouldn’t be sleeping in the spare bed.

Guards were posted at the door to her quarters in the great hall, and again at the second door. Morgan felt a bit uncomfortable, that she should have such protection when those that didn’t have the strength or the ability to defend themselves might be left exposed.  But some good did come of the sabotage.  The Grey Wardens worked just as hard as the Inquisition soldiers to clear the rubble and care for the wounded, setting everything aside and giving their all to protect the people.  It went a long way to soothe the wounds that still lingered after Adamant.

And instead of letting Hinter wander the grounds as he often did, Morgan kept him at her side. But not for protection.  She simply couldn’t bear the thought that someone might try to hurt her by going after her dog.  He seemed quite happy with the arrangement, padding along behind her and Bull, or moving ahead like a scout.  The Little Chief popped up here and there as well, following them through the Undercroft and the War Room, and even into Solas’ rotunda. 

They went to the infirmary last, and relief flooded Morgan when she saw Asala sitting up, pulling a comb through her unbraided hair. She looked up before they spoke, her milky eyes lifting.  A black bruise covered nearly half of her face, and a few more chunks had been taken from one of her horns.  But she was alive, and all too happy to promise her help in finding proof of Dorothea’s involvement.  She smiled when Morgan sat down beside her, letting the smaller woman clasp her hands and pretending she didn’t hear the quiet sniffle of the dwarf holding back tears.

“You’re different,” she said, her smile subdued but lingering.

Morgan knew that Asala would see the magic in her more clearly than anyone else, and wondered briefly what it looked like. “I am,” was all she managed to say, staring down at the large gray hand she held.  “It’s… more than a little frightening.”

“You have good teachers.” Asala curled her hand around Morgan’s, squeezing.  “There are good people here, even if the egg still freaks me out.”

“He seems to genuinely want to help me,” Morgan said, unsure of why she held back about the unsettling things she’d seen from Solas. There had been nothing new, but what she’d seen in the Fade lingered, impossible to forget.  It felt almost… _dangerous_ to share, even with people like Bull, Asala, and Sh’vara.  So she swallowed the words back down.

Asala’s blank gaze moved past Morgan, her face hardening slightly as it turned to Bull. He stood at a respectful distance, eyes going between his charge and surveying the comings and goings of the long hall.  “I was told something, Morgan.  I thought you should know.  The Iron Bull, he’s…”  She paused a moment, squeezing her friend’s hand.  “Did you know he’s Ben-Hassrath?”

Morgan blinked, then remembered that such information was supposed to be secret, even if all the companions seemed to know. Anxiety quickly followed; she had kept that knowledge secret from Asala.  But there was no use lying now, so she allowed herself a single steadying breath.  “He told me the day we met.  He’s been sharing his reports with us.”  Even if Asala’s eyes were useless, they still appeared to widen.  Morgan rushed to continue.  “I didn’t tell you at first because we needed him.  No one was willing to work with us, and we needed the reports.  Later… because he’s my friend, and I didn’t want two of my closest friends hating each other.  It was selfish, and I’m sorry.”

Asala was quiet for a long time, her face lowered and looking at nothing. Morgan’s chest tightened and ached, terrified at the prospect of losing her friend.  The thought of being made to choose brought her more fear than any demon or dwarf.  Partly because she already knew who she would pick.  But then the Vashoth smiled.  “You’re a good judge of character, Morgan.  And he’s never made me uncomfortable.  I’m going to trust you.”  She squeezed Morgan’s hand again.  “And if he ever lets something happen to you, I’ll turn him into a fucking tree.”

The constricting tightness in her chest loosened slightly, and Morgan smiled back. “From the way people have been acting, you might have to get in line,” she said bashfully, expression turning shy.

Shaking her head, the mage chuckled. “You’re so surprised that people see you positively, when you’ve done nothing but good things for them.  They love you, and want you safe, just as you’ve kept them.”  She pulled Morgan in and kissed her forehead before meeting it with her own heavier brow.  “Thank you for telling me, lil’ bit.”

They parted smiling, and Bull escorted her back to her rooms, nodding respectfully to the guards that opened the doors for them. A meal had been laid out on a table, and an extra chair brought up.  It was roast chicken and potatoes baked in garlic and butter, with fruit and cheese set aside with a bottle of Morgan’s favorite wine.  Morgan was about to pour herself a cup, then stopped, staring down at her hands.  She suddenly felt so defeated, and slowly set the bottle down, not willing to lift her eyes and meet the gaze she felt Bull touching her with.

“Is… is it alright if I have a drink?” she finally heard herself say. Instantly she felt foolish.  She should be able to decide on her own either to drink or not to.  She shouldn’t _have_ to ask permission.  She heard the shift of the chair and the click of Bull’s brace as he walked over to crouch at her side.

“It’s something you struggle with?” he asked gently, without a hint of judgement. Morgan nodded mutely.  “You use it to deaden the edges of things, make them not matter for long enough that you can sleep?”  Another silent nod.  “I’m assuming sometimes you don’t know when to stop.  And just want more and more until you don’t even remember why you wanted to drink in the first place.”

Tears welled instantly, and Morgan squeezed her eyes shut, a few drops falling into her lap. “It doesn’t pain me not to have but… but it makes it so much _easier_.  I really want to.”  Her voice cracked, and she turned her head away from Bull.  She had bared herself to him, body and soul, and yet _this_ was made her turn away in shame.  And when he stood again and walked back towards his chair, she felt almost as if she’d been struck.  But he just brought his chair over to sit next to her.

“There was this stuff in Seheron. Some native plant similar to elfroot.  You know how if you dry the leaves you can smoke them, and they can be really calming?”

“Makes you hungry, too,” Morgan mumbled.

Bull nodded. “Yeah.  But this stuff… it was different.  It just… cut everything away.  It let you focus on what needed to be done, like there was nothing else.  It made hard things easy.”  He took a breath.  “Towards the end I…   I had been there a long time, and it hadn’t gotten any better.  No matter what I tried, no matter who I killed, innocents kept dying.  It didn’t matter if they stayed out of it, or declared openly for one side or another.  They just… kept dying.”  His voice had become very quiet, low and carefully measured.  Even with her own emotions so twisted, Morgan could tell that he was holding back a great deal.

“This plant, it… it made it easier for me. I could focus on the orders I was given and didn’t have to think about my friends dying, or the civilians that were deemed ‘acceptable casualties’.  We ran out for a while.  And I realized that the drug was the only thing that had been keeping me going.  I felt so completely _useless_ there by the end, and genuinely couldn’t think of a good reason to keep going.  But I wasn’t going to do it myself, and sure as hell wasn’t going to give some rebel the satisfaction of killing me.  So I turned myself in to the Reeducators.”  He had done everything they’d told him, all the things they had told him would _fix_ things.  And nothing had gotten better…

Since they met, it had been an unspoken sort of thing that they didn’t talk much about the details of their past. Morgan had bad memories of the Carta, and Bull had bad memories of Seheron.  General questions had been fine with both of them, but this… Bull had just shared so much, and shown just how deep his understanding of her troubles went.  Morgan reached out, taking one large hand into both of hers, weaving her fingers around his.  Slowly, his fingers curled around hers, thanking her for her silent acceptance.

“Thank you, Bull,” Morgan finally said.

Bull squeezed her hand back. “You can have a drink if you want, Boss,” he said quietly.  “I’m gonna be right here.”  A nose thrust out from under the table, wiggling and sniffing as Hinter laid his head on Morgan’s knees.  “And so is he, apparently.”

They both smiled, and Morgan peeled away a piece of chicken for the dog. Bull remained seated at her side, and she let go of his hand grudgingly.  She poured herself a glass of wine, and they ate in silence, feeding scraps to Hinter, and occasionally the Little Chief.  With her stomach full, Morgan allowed herself a second glass, feeling the soft fuzzing at the edges of her worry, rounding them out until they didn’t cut at her so badly.  After that, she corked the bottle and pushed it out of reach.  Josephine had laid out a tiny silver plate of dark Antivan chocolate truffles, laced with curry spices.  Morgan shared the spicy-sweet morsels with Bull, and eventually pushed away from the table, full and a great deal more relaxed than before.

Bull’s eye followed her as she drifted over to the wardrobe, peeling her clothing off piece by piece, either replacing it in the wardrobe, or putting it in the sack to go be washed. Even if there was nothing sexual in her movements, he still enjoyed watching.  She wasn’t some tall, willowy woman, all long legs and elegance.  She moved with purpose, no flourishes or extra movements.  She had a new scattering of bruises from the rescue efforts, though a few faint shadows remained striped on her upper thighs and backside. 

Her sleeping clothes were simple. Instead of just a shift, she choose loose cotton breeches and an equally loose shirt, both dyed a soft lavender with green stitching.  Bull had noticed her preference for the colors before, though she refused to tint her armor with nevarrite, even if it was her favorite color.  He knew that she had been gifted much finger things, but that they usually ended up in storage.  And at least half of the fine bedclothes ended up being made into a bed for Hinter.  He had a pile of cushions and blanket by the fire, though he more often slept in the bed with Morgan.  So the Little Chief had made use of the kingly resting place.

As the shirt came down over her head, and she freed her hair from the neckline, she realized that it would be the first time Bull spent the night with her. And they wouldn’t be having sex.  She didn’t want passion from him now.  All she wanted in the world was to lay beside him and tangle her limbs with his as she laid her head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.  The thought of such things should have had her scoffing and rolling her eyes.  Wanting them should have been easy to dismiss.  But they were not, and she wanted it all the more.  Moreover, it should have _scared_ her, wanting something that could so easily be misconstrued as romantic, or even loving.

But there was no panic, no surging of once sweet memories of Mari, no need to run from anything similar. The lack of fear at wanting something so chaste and simple from Bull was more terrifying than the pain of any memory.  And yet… she knew she could have it.  Morgan knew that she could ask it of Bull and he would give it to her gladly, wishing genuinely for her happiness.  And why shouldn’t she have it?  She didn’t want _love_ from him.  But she still paused, fingering the hem of her shirt and feeling Bull’s gaze on her back. 

He was waiting for her, she realized. He was fully ready to sleep in the large, single bed that had been set for him on the other side of the room, a folding partition affording him privacy.  He was completely prepared for her not to want him in her bed in any capacity beyond what they had already done.  If she wished, they could have no contact outside sex.  But the words stuck in her throat, the hesitant but earnest request suddenly unspeakable.  So she turned back, walking over to him and taking his hand in hers.

Bull let Morgan lead him to the bed, and push him gently until he sat on the edge. She knelt and undid his ankle brace before tugging off his boots.  He let her remove his harness, and saw her eyes settle on his patch.  She bit her lip, clearly struggling with what to say.  Whether it was the wine, or whether him sharing so much about Seheron, neither of them were sure, but something let her be bold enough to finally speak.  “Is it something you want to keep on?” she finally asked, voice very small.

“It’s not pretty,” he said.

Her hesitance turned to a frown. “That’s not what I asked.  Are you more comfortable leaving it on?”  Something struck her, and she continued, words tumbling out.  “I don’t want you to think that you have to hide anything for my sake.  I don’t want to be selfish, but I have shown you…  You’ve accepted everything about me without question, I’d… like to do the same for you.  But it’s _not_ about me.  It’s your body, and if you want to keep that part covered then it’s fine.”

Bull stared at her in silence for a long time. She had, for the most part, stopped wearing a mask around him, letting him see every emotion that flitted across her face or through her eyes.  It was difficult for her, a conscious decision that always left something a little raw in her face, a trace of fear at letting herself be seen so clearly.  That look was there again, like she was waiting for him to shut her out.  He should have, he knew.  She was already far too close to him.  But his hands rose all the same, undoing the familiar knots of his patch and pulling it from his face.

Instead of the pity he had come to expect, it was _anger_ that painted itself across Morgan’s face.  She reached up and touched the scars that the flail had left under the place where his eye had been.  The socket had been shattered, warping the line of his brow and leaving only a few tufts of dark hair.  There was nothing left of the eye.  It had been completely ruined, and had been plucked away, another piece of himself missing.  What remained was a gnarled mass of deeply wrinkled tissue, the seam of his eyelids a tightly shut fissure. 

“You lost it defending Krem,” Morgan said, and he could tell she was measuring her voice, keeping the rage from it. “They caught him and they were…”  Her hand dropped away, clenching into a fist at her side.  She felt angry tears prickle her eyes, but looked defiantly back up at him.  “You’re a good man, Bull.  I—the Inquisition is lucky to have you.”  The deflection had been clumsy, and she lowered her head.  “I just… I’m so fucking tired.”

Reaching out, Bull tucked her hair behind her ear and tilted her head back up to him. He fought the urge to kiss her, thumb stroking her soft freckled cheek.  This was dangerous.  He _knew_ that it was dangerous.  He couldn’t name what she was to him, only that she was dear.  That in itself was frightening, and might have sent a younger version of himself running.  But he couldn’t run.  Not from Morgan, even if every voice in his head was telling him to turn back before it was too late.  Too late for what, he didn’t know.

But he voiced none of it, crawling into bed with her and letting her curl against his side, small and warm. Hinter crawled under the covers on her other side, curling behind her legs and insulating her in warmth.  Bull laid awake as she drifted easily, lips slightly parted and one hand flattened on his chest.  He stared up at the canopy of her bed, mind restless.  This felt _good_ , it went completely at odds with the anxiety that continued to gnaw at him.  It _shouldn’t_ feel good, of that he was certain.  This sort of… closeness that they danced around, it should make him feel scorn, not longing.

He had been away for a long time, and knew that there were many among the ranks of the Ben-Hassrath that thought he had become too lax, taking his role as Tal-Vashoth too seriously. But it was a _good_ life, full of good people and food and drink.  There was always a good fight to be had, and friends to share and celebrate the victory with.  He was _happy_.  It angered him sometimes; the Qun was all he should need.  But he was not so naïve as to think of the Qun as perfect.  It wasn’t good for everyone, and he knew that even he had edges that cut against what the role that the Qun had given him. 

Then Morgan murmured something, not quite asleep. Her lips moved against his chest, her breath warm on his skin.  Fuck it.  This wasn’t the Qun, and if she needed him here, then he wouldn’t deny her.  He wanted to ease what pains he could for his friend.  If this was what she needed, then he would be happy to give it to her.

 

000

 

Morgan resented the guarded escort that followed her, Bull and Hinter to the War Room. She knew for a fact that the mutt and the qunari were more than a match for any assassin, as were the daggers she now carried. That day, she wore mail under her leathers, and concealed metal plates in the knuckles of her gloves, giving extra power to her strikes if she was forced into hand-to-hand combat.  After a quick morning meeting, the first thing Morgan did was address the large number of irate merchants that had gathered in the hall, demanding to speak to her.

Once again, she stepped into the role of Inquisitor and leader effortlessly, calmly assuring them their safety was of utmost priority, and that the investigation would be brought to a swift and decisive close. She even managed to stir up anger towards anyone that would attack the Inquisition, putting the lives and livlihoods of so many at risk.  It gave the merchants a new target for their anger.  But she gave no specifics, not wanting a dwarf with no carta ties what-so-ever to become a victim of a mob.  Leliana would have preferred not to address it at all, but the very public explosion had made that impossible.

The rest of the day involved, surprisingly, very little. It was maddening.  Though perfectly skilled in negotiation and fighting, Morgan could not be the one to go around asking questions.  Instead she made a show of having a row with a visiting noble, who was actually a bard friend of Josephine’s.  Then two of the ‘noble’s’ servants were detained, and it was made to look like _they_ were suspected of the sabotage, while the real attention was focused elsewhere.  Comings and goings were always well documented in Skyhold, but there had been more than the usual thefts from the kitchens, going beyond children stealing cakes or fruit.  Someone had snuck in without notice.

Then a soldier turned up dead. He had been strangled on his way down to the cells, caught unawares by someone coming up as he went down to relieve a comrade of their shift on guard duty.  Not long after that, there was an attack on the infirmary, likely targeting the still slumbering Willen.  Sh’vara hadn’t seen the attacker’s face, but had drawn their blood.  They also confirmed suspicions that it was a dwarf, and one that could pass as female.

Bull had seen the way Morgan paled at the confirmation, and had taken her aside, Hinter waiting in the doorway to alert them of any approach. “You have a fair idea of who this assassin is, don’t you?” he said quietly.

The room was nothing more than a small office, and Bull looked almost comically large in it. Morgan hugged her arms around herself and nodded.  “Yes.”

Bull huffed out a quiet breath, but was willing to get his answer in pieces. “You gonna tell me who?” he urged gently.

“Mari.” The name burst out before Morgan could think, and flinched away, knowing that pity would come next.  But no hand lay comfortingly on her shoulder, and she was not drawn into an embrace.  Instead, she heard the quiet creak of a clenched jaw, and looked up to find Bull’s face perfectly blank.  She truly could not read him now, his eye empty as they stared intently at something on the wall behind her.  “Bull?” she whispered.

Careful. He had to be _careful_.  The rage roaring inside him now was dangerous.  He took three even breaths before he looked back to Morgan.  Only when he met her questioning gaze did he realize that his carefully schooled expression had frightened her more than his anger ever could have.  He deflated, glancing towards the mabari-guarded door before he let his mask drop.  “I don’t like this.  We should leave.  Draw their attention away.  We can’t _fight_ here.”  The words became a growl towards the end, and he scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

Morgan understood his frustration. While she carried her daggers, she knew she couldn’t fight in Skyhold the way she did out in the wilds.  If Mari was anything like she had been all those years ago, then she would use the civilians to her advantage, probably knowing how much Morgan had come to care for them.  And there were civilians _everywhere_.  Even if there were a few bards and spies mixed in, most of the others only had a passing familiarity with weapons, and even fewer actually _carried_ them. 

“But if I leave, and something else happens…”

“I know.” Bull sighed again, hand dropping from his face.  “This is a giant pile of shit, Boss.  Would be so much easier to just have her killed.”

Morgan snorted. “I want to.  But that’s not what the Inquisition is.  I don’t want to be that kind of leader.  I’ll fight my enemies, of course, but I won’t kill without solid proof.”

He gave her a wry smirk. “I kind of wish she’d just tried to kill you directly.  That’s about as solid as proof can get.”

She laughed, the sound genuine but tired. “I really would have made shit easier.”  Looking up at him, his smile almost seemed relieved.  “How about a nice, simple enemy next time, huh?  Some Venatori, maybe?  Or Red Templars?  They don’t bother with scheming.  Well… the Venatori do, but not in the field.  They just try to kill us there.  That’s easy, right?”  It was much, _much_ easier than the feelings that twisted in her belly whenever Bull smiled at her.  They were feelings so tightly linked to bad memories that it nearly terrified her to feel them around Bull.  But she couldn’t bear to push him aside; his friendship was worth the pain.

Hinter made a quiet sound, which was quickly followed by a loud, “Hoooooks!”

They both turned to see Sera hurrying towards the doorway, and turned to face her together. With a quick pat between his ears, the elf sidestepped the dog and came into the room.  To their surprise, she actually shut the door behind her, leaving it just open enough that Hinter could pull it open with a paw if he needed to.  “We need to talk.”

Bull bit back a groan. “See, when _you_ get all serious, I know we’re in deep shit,” he grumbled. 

Sera stuck out her tongue at him. “That’s cuz I’m the fuckin’ cavalry!” she said, grinning.  Then she looked back to Morgan.  “So I had a Jenny visit, yeah?  But she’s all… weird.  Different from how I remember, even if it’s been years.  She’s dwarfy, and I haven’t seen ‘er since the fucking dungeons blew up.”

Pain of a different kind washed away everything else. Morgan had _suspected_ that Dorothea might bring Mari, either because the other woman was a good assassin, or to use as an intimidation tactic with Morgan.  But for it to be inching its way towards actual reality, and not just suspicion…  She swallowed hard, shoving her hands into her pockets to keep herself from reaching for Bull’s hands.  “Blue eyes?” she murmured.

“Really pretty blue. She’s also got this scar on her belly, looks like—”

“Like someone stabbed her?” Morgan cut in, voice stiff.

“Yeah… wait, d’you know her?”

“Sounds an awful lot like _you_ know her _very_ well,” Bull muttered.

Sera shrugged. “We had fun together once or twice, but like I said, that was years back.”

Fighting the pounding of her heart, Morgan opened her vest and pulled her shirt and chainmail to the side, exposing her Carta tattoo. “Did she have this?  On her right shoulder in red?”

Eyes narrowing, the elf’s lip curled. “So one of my fucking friends is really a fucking Carty assassin?” she snapped.  “Oh _fuck_ her!  I am going to need _so_ many bees!”  Her face began to redden, fingers makings jerky strangling motions in front of her.  Then she paused.  “So… you _do_ know her, yeah?”

Pale-faced, Morgan nodded, staring blankly ahead. “She was my girlfriend for three years.  I wanted to marry her.  She tried to kill me as a test for her training.”  The only sound that came from Bull was a quick exhale of air through his nose, but inside he was grappling with all the hateful things he wanted to say about the woman.

Sera looked as horrified and angry as Bull felt. “She _what_?  And I fucked ‘er!  Shite!”  She made a face and shivered in disgust.  “Please tell me that _you’re_ the one that stabbed her!  Tried t’ kill her right back?”

“Didn’t know it was her until I stabbed her,” Morgan whispered. “Sera, is there any way you can reach out to her?  She’s still here, no one has left the castle since the explosion.  I know you haven’t seen her, but…”  She trailed off, not daring to hope.

When Sera grinned, there was a positively evil glint to it. “I think so.  You want me to talk to you, or to the scary one?”

Morgan knew that ‘the scary one’ was Leliana, and the three of them quickly arranged a meeting later on in the Herald’s rest, where it was not uncommon to see any of them towards the end of the day. If something came up before that, Sera would cause a ruckus in the Undercroft with Dagna.  Sera gave a piece of jerky to Hinter as she left.  “Oh!  One of the dogs had puppies!  All red and small and cuter than buttons!  Try to have a look before they try to off you again, yeah?”  Morgan smiled at the elf’s retreating back.  Sera liked animals nearly as much as Morgan herself, and was always happy to share antics of the castle’s large population.  It was nice to know that the more pleasant parts of life still kept going.

But they didn’t visit. Morgan was torn between knowing it was unlikely anything would happen in crowded spaces, and not wanting to get innocent people involved.  Dorothea seemed to have stopped trying to see her as well, and hadn’t come out of her rooms since the previous day.  Minaeve and Willen were awake, but Morgan didn’t linger, just making sure that guard rotations were still in place for the infirmary.

There was no word from anyone, just Leliana reporting nothing. Sera didn’t seem to be doing anything at all, but that didn’t mean much.  She always managed to get things done in her own strange way.  There were no more attacks, but Morgan’s nerves were still frayed raw.  Hinter could tell, and began to cry and snuffle at her whenever they were still, leaning against her as if trying to leach some of the tension into himself instead.  But anxiety was coming from everything.  The slightly rough texture of her new tunic, the fact that she’d lost enough weight that her breeches didn’t fit properly, and the texture of her new gloves felt strangely greasy.  There were other things, all her senses going on overload until a migraine thundered behind her eyes.

“I’m taking you back to your room.” There was no question, no room for her to agree or put him off.  Bull gripped her arm, and she flinched at the renewed itchiness of her tunic, the sensation nearly overwhelming.  He directed her firmly but gently, without even a look at the guards beside her door.  Hinter tugged the final door closed behind them, racing up the steps after Morgan.  She rushed, stripping out of her vest and weapons and practically tearing off the offending shirt. 

The moment it hit the floor, she was scratching. Every inch of her felt like it was crawling, prickles lingering under her skin.  As her skin began to turn red, Bull wrapped gentle arms around her from behind, catching her hands in his.  “Easy,” he murmured.

Morgan let herself drop back against the solidness of him, skin still burning. Her body was as tight as a bowstring, and it took all the self-control she could muster not to squirm away.  “I hate doing nothing!” she said through clenched teeth.  She growled her frustration, wrists straining but not trying to break his hold.  He was warm and real behind her, but her skin still crawled, making her twitchy and restless.  She abruptly turned in his hold, burying her face in his stomach and breathing in his scent.  Her fingers traced his scars, going over patterns that had, at some point, become almost as familiar as her own.

“Didn’t know textures could tip things for you,” Bull said. It wasn’t uncommon, exactly, and he knew that certain types of minds were easily overwhelmed during times of stress.  For someone that constantly threw herself into the thick of things, always at the front lines, having to sit back while others did the asking and acting must be maddening. 

“Not all the time,” Morgan muttered.  “Bumpy things, sometimes.  They look like… like plague.  Pustules and… and sores…holes in the skin…”  She shivered, wrapping her arms around him.  “It’s stupid.”

“Everyone has that aversion, Boss,” Bull said quietly, tone free of judgement. “It’s a good instinct, avoiding anything that looks like sickness.  You just have a stronger reaction than most folks.”  She made an unconvinced grumbling nose from somewhere around his navel.  “Did you see or feel something like that today?”

“No,” Morgan admitted. “But it’s a new tunic and it was tickling me and it felt like _bugs_.  That made me think of the spider thing the Nightmare turned into, and all the fucking _eyes_ …”  She shuddered again, letting go of him to wrap her arms around herself.  But she stayed close.  “I had to get it off me.  I _still_ feel it, even though I know it’s not there.”

“It’s okay,” Bull said, and she felt his body shift as he shrugged. “I mean, you freaked out, but you didn’t set anything on fire, so I suppose that’s a plus.”  He felt Morgan’s slight exhale, and knew it was all she could manage in the way of a laugh.  “Does anything help?  A bath, a texture you like?”

Strangely, Morgan felt tears prick her eyes. He was so fucking considerate that it was painful.  He didn’t question or judge, he just accepted and did his best to help.  “I don’t deserve you,” she heard herself say.

Bull didn’t expect her words to hurt him. But for some reason, her believing that she didn’t _deserve_ a close friend that cared about her… it cut deeply.  She was kind and intelligent and sharp as a fucking razor.  She was _good_ , for all her anger.  There wasn’t a trace of evil or malice in her, her fury drawn out only when _others_ were hurting.  He couldn’t be said to be wholly good, not really.  He’d done cruel things under orders, and hadn’t _questioned_ the orders.  Morgan… she would never hurt a person that didn’t deserve it, and for her to feel that she didn’t deserve some rest from all the pain and suffering and suffocating expectations…

Crouching down, Bull cupped her face in his hands, and drew her in without thinking. He realized he was about to kiss her, and instead bumped his forehead gently against hers.  “You’re a good woman, Morgan Cadash.  You deserve as many close friends as you want.  You _deserve_ to be happy, no matter what it is that gets you there.” 

Her hands came up to cup his wrists, her eyes falling closed. She felt a few tears escape, and took in a shuddering breath.  “Thank you,” she said wetly.  “So do you.  Deserve to be happy, I mean.”

“I _am_ happy, Boss,” Bull said.  They both opened their eyes and drew back slightly.  “It’s… it’s good here, for all the shits trying to kill us, and the darkspawn magister running around.”  He kept his mouth shut after that, offering only a smile.  He didn’t know what would come out if he kept going.  “Now.  You never answered my question.  When you get like this, what help?”

“Bath,” Morgan mumbled, wiping hurriedly at her eyes. “Hot bath.”

“I’m not letting you scrub yourself raw,” Bull said before he could stop himself.

Morgan’s smile was shy, but there was something pained in her eyes, vanishing too quickly to identify. “I won’t, I promise,” she said.  “Now… what’s going to be more awkward, you yelling down that I want water for a bath, or me asking for water to be brought up to bathe while by bodyguard is present?”

 

000

 

The runes carved into the bath glowed red as they heated the water, Morgan perched naked on the edge, just her toes submerged. When the temperature was finally right, she slid in with a quiet splash.  She had only just closed her eyes when she heard the click of claws on stone, and Hinter’s whine.  Cracking one eye open, she observed the dog staring at her, ears back, and looking about as worried as it was possible for a dog to get.  She flicked water at him, and he huffed and shook his head, offended.

The heat seeped slowly into her skin, a gentle pressure that slowly pushed aside the feeling of skittering little touches. She smoothed the lemon scented soap over her body, and worked it into her hair.  As she ducked under to scrub away the soap, she lingered for a moment.  She had always loved the water, for all she feared what could linger in it when the water was murky.  But this… this was calming.  She saw Bull’s blurry shape come in, and surfaced slowly, pushing water back from her eyes and brow, hair slicked down the back of her neck.

Water clung to her lashes for a moment, catching the flickering yellow lamplight. And she blushed so prettily, her smile bashful as she looked away.  He stared at her for a long time, watching droplets travel over her, her wet skin flushed and steaming.  She was so fucking pretty… Just to _look_ at.  He didn’t have to stare at her with lust or hunger.  The sex was great, obviously, but he also found himself strangely happy just to admire, like he might look at a fine piece of weaponry, or when the Chargers executed a drill perfectly.  It wasn’t a perfect comparison, but it was the best he could come up with, and he smiled.

“What?!” Morgan huffed, rising from the water and pulling one of the fresh towels from the hook on the wall.

“What? I can’t enjoy the view?” he teased, chuckling when she rolled her eyes, but kept smiling. 

She had only put one foot on the mat outside the tub, when Hinter began to lick at her ankles, as if trying to help his master be rid of the horrifying bath as quickly as possible. Laughing, Morgan shooed him out and shut the door behind him.  When she turned back, Bull was looking at her again, eye half lidded and face relaxed.  Biting her lip, she watched him ease down to sit on the wide edge of the stone tub, and extend a hand to her.  Her stomach fluttered, and she stepped forward, letting him lay hands on her shoulders and draw her between his knees.  As he almost always was, he was taller than her, and she had to tilt her head back to look at him. 

Her eyes really were a pretty color; not like cool emeralds, but a forest in summer, tinged with just enough golden brown to be real. His thumb traced the scar on her right eyebrow, then the one at the left corner of her mouth, her lip catching on the digit.  Fuck, this was dangerous.  All he had to do was touch her and she pulled him in with nothing but those big, trusting eyes, _welcoming_ him.  She didn’t have to do a damn thing.  He wondered if he had that sort of power over her, too?

He did. And it was terrifying.  Just the uncertainty of where he meant for his actions to lead them had Morgan’s heart racing, and heat already pooling between her legs.  She was still _very_ naked under the towel.  All Bull had to do was tug once, and she’d be naked.  There was something strangely exciting about being completely bare, while he was still fully clothed.  Or, as fully clothed as he ever got.  He was so close now, hands loose and light on her shoulders, the silence pressing in on her ears as she shivered.

Then Hinter growled, low and deep, the sound positively terrifying as it reverberated in his barrel chest. The moment between them shattered, Bull putting himself between her and the door as she struggled to pull on her clothes, bothering only with breeches and a shirt.  She had kept her daggers with her as she bathed, and had them in hand as Bull eased the door open.  Hinter stood a few feet away, ears forward and hair on his back bristling.  His eyes were fixed on the stairs, the growl coming again.  Seeing Bull, he looked between the qunari and the stairs twice before he stilled, body bunched and tight.

Hinter knew the guards on duty, and they had fed him treats nearly every time he came or went with Morgan. He didn’t growl at them.  Adrenaline began to ooze into her veins, her ears straining for any sound, Bull still standing slightly in front of her.  But she wanted to push _him_ back, her mind suddenly full of worry.  She was right.  They heard the footsteps a moment too late, the figure appearing out of a burst of smoke at the top of the stairs, at the same moment three knives cut through the air.  Hinter had gone forward a moment before the attacker exposed themselves, and was spared the blades, but two of them buried themselves in the arm Bull had raised to protect himself. 

Morgan was moving before Bull even had time to snarl in pain, one dagger clattering to the floor as she felt fire in her left hand. But her rage didn’t burn, it didn’t consume.  It was sharp, bright, and focused.  Her fist connected to a jaw in a blur of orange, and a woman screamed.  Hinter leaped for her, but she spun, cutting a deep gash along his side.  He fell to the side with a pained howl, scrambling to right himself.  Morgan screamed then, more a snarl than anything else.  She couldn’t see it, but her eyes blazed as green as Rift, teeth bared. 

More knives flew, but not at her. Bull was already moving, mindless of his injury as he charged, far faster than a man of his bulk had any right to be.  He caught the woman with his shoulder, sending her crashing into the wall.  Bleeding heavily, Hinter was on her in an instant, the crack of bone loud enough to hear as his jaw closed around one of their wrists.  Another scream, but Morgan was on her now, dagger to her throat and her hand blazing fire in front of her eyes.

Blue eyes. Wide and terrified, familiar lips split and bleeding.

Hinter had gone still, but had not released his prey, ears back and body low. “Bull!” Morgan snapped.  “Check on the guards and get those wounds looked at.  Probably poisoned again.  And find Jaren for Hinter!  He should be in the kennels!”

“No! You don’t understand!”  Mari’s voice was so familiar and full of what seemed to be genuine concern that it nearly hurt.  “You can’t trust him, he’s Ben-Hassrath!”

Morgan blinked, hearing Bull move to obey her order. Then she laughed, the sound sharp and nearly hysteric.  She took a slow breath, thinking of the mountains beyond the open window, of the snow and ice that gathered.  Cold crept outward from her palm, the fire leaving her skin pink but unburnt.  “Who the fuck told you that?” she spat, feigning disbelief and anger.

Despite the tears in her eyes, Mari didn’t waver. “Aunty!  She—”

“Yes, because I trust you two more than _anyone_ ,” Morgan snarled back.  “Hinter, release!”  The mutt did as he was told without question.  “Towel.  Fetch.”  He trotted off, coming back with a slightly damp towel.  Without looking over, she took it and stroked his head.  “They’ll be here soon to take care of you, I promise,” she whispered, risking a quick glance over.  The red looked terrifying on the white parts of his fur, but they’d been in enough fights together for her to know that it wasn’t serious. 

“Morgan, I _know_ we’re not on good terms, but Aunty is trying to help, I swear it!”  Mari hardly seemed to notice Morgan folding the towel up and pressing it to Mari’s bloody wrist.  “He was ordered to get close to you, by the Qun!  He’s not—”

“Not what? Not my friend?”  The anger came bubbling back up, hot tears stinging her eyes.  “Just like you were never really my girlfriend?  Just like how you _lied_ and said you fucking loved me?!”

“I _did_ love you!  Aunty _made_ —!”

Morgan dropped her dagger and grabbed the other woman by the throat. “She didn’t make you do anything!  She gave an order, and you _followed_ it, like a good little soldier!  You tried to _kill_ the woman you said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with!”

“No! I didn’t!”

“Don’t fucking _lie_ to—!”

“It was a test for _you_ , not me!  Aunty was testing _you_!  She wanted you as her successor!”  Mari was crying in earnest now, her face so open and distraught that Morgan almost believed her.

If it was the truth, it changed everything, and nothing. If not… well, it didn’t really matter.  The anger left her as quickly as it had come, and she pulled away from Mari, watching the other woman curl into a ball around their wrist, crying into the floor.  Keeping an eye on her, Morgan did her best to clean Hinter’s wound, murmuring calming nonsense to him as she worked.  Bull came back with Jaren, who took Hinter from the room as guards piled in, led by a bristling Cassandra.  Morgan watched with empty eyes as the other dwarf was taken away.  Questions bubbled in the back of her head, but she pushed them down, drawing away from herself.  Morgan was full of pain; she didn’t want to be Morgan right now.

She ordered Dorothea and the others taken into custody, but not arrested. Mari would be questioned, and only then would actual punishments and sentencing happen.  Bull was the one to stay with her, Cassandra putting a hand on his shoulder and looking meaningfully at Morgan before she left them alone.  Bull didn’t touch her, pulling up a chair near hers and just sitting there silently.  He didn’t try to draw her back, to make her aware enough of herself that she’d feel the pain again.  He just sat there, waiting for her.

The sky darkened and food was brought up before Morgan finally blinked herself back into awareness. Tears filled her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands.  Only then did Bull touch her, pulling her from her chair and drawing her into his arms.  He let her cry, as he had at Adamant, knowing that if she didn’t let it out, it would stay buried and be left to fester.  She had so much pain inside already, she didn’t need any more.  He was determined to draw it all out, like poison, if he could.  There was more inside than a good cry could heal, and there was plenty that she would have to do herself, but he still wanted to help.

She had been quiet for a long time before she looked up, eyes red and nose running. Bull just hugged her tighter, and she put her arms around his neck and hid her wet face in his shoulder.  He _ached_.  Not just from the remains of the poison, but to see his Ka—to see _Morgan_ , in such pain hurt him, too.  He kissed the side of her head, stroking her back.  He knew that he was probably one of the only people who ever got to see her like this.  For nearly everyone else, she kept it all inside, putting on her mask no matter how much she hurt.  He knew, that when she made whatever announcement was necessary, that she would do so with calm, easy confidence.

They went to the bed and laid down, but neither of them spent more than a few fitful hours asleep. Hinter returned late in the night, scratching at the door and crawling into bed with a new scar, but otherwise hale and whole.  Bull noticed she slept a bit better after that, but she still tossed and turned, muttering nonsense under her breath as her eyes danced behind closed lids.  When light finally began to crawl its way over the horizon, they got up and munched silently on the mostly untouched dinner. 

When Morgan dressed, she put on the black uniform with the Inquisition insignia, but left her freshly washed hair loose, flashing redish gold as she passed under beams of sun through the windows. As they descended the stairs, for a moment, he felt oddly out of place at her side.  She was the picture of a regal, dignified leader, even with her hair free.  And he…  He was exactly what he had set out to be when he had been sent to Orlais to act the Tal-Vashoth mercenary.  Large, rough, intimidating, and… Fuck.  Where was all this shit coming from?  He knew for a _fact_ that Morgan wanted him at her side, _exactly_ as he was.  She had asked him and was _glad_ for his company.  Even now, as they neared the door to the main hall, she glanced back and offered a small smile.

 

000

 

One of the many smaller rooms had been cleared out, and Morgan sat behind a desk against the wall. Bull stood to her left, Leliana on her right, with Hinter sitting beside her, her hand resting on the back of his neck.  Across the desk, Dorothea and Mari sat beside each other.  Mari’s broken arm had been set, and seen to by an impassive Sh’vara.  Morgan knew that both her mage friends were waiting outside, Asala probably pacing and swearing.  Mari’s eyes were also red and puffy from crying, something that might once have made Morgan’s heart ache.  She had expected to feel more, faced with her again.  Instead, she felt detached, and lighter somehow.  Something had come to an end.

“There will be a formal trial in three days, but I thought I’d give you a chance to speak. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” Morgan finally said. 

Dorothea was silent for a long time. Morgan could see the anger and frustration so clearly, even though there was hardly a twitch of expression on the old woman’s face.  Her body sat rigid in the seat, back ram-rod straight.  As Morgan continued to stare, the old woman’s thin fingers balled into fists in her lap.  “You are an ungrateful wretch,” she said, before actually spitting on the floor.  The guards at the door actually bared their teeth, hands twitching towards their swords hilts.

Morgan had no fear left inside her. She leaned forward, hands splaying on the desk before her.  “And what _exactly_ do I have to be grateful to you for, _Aunty_?  The scars?  The inability to go into a small, windowless room without starting to shake in fear?”

“I was _training_ you!” the woman shot back, barely keeping herself seated.  “You could have succeeded me, but you were too much like Rebka, too soft!  I had to _fix_ you!  I knew you had greatness in you, tried to let it out, and _this_ is how you thank me!”

Without her fear, Morgan had only anger left, fingers drawing back across the wood into fists. “I didn’t _need_ fixing to be a good leader!” she hissed. 

“You were _broken_!” Dorothea flew to her feet, lunging forward and slamming her fists down on the desk.  “Pathetic and weak and—”  Morgan hit her, fist lashing out in a rabbit punch that sent the older dwarf reeling back, clutching a bleeding nose.

Bull saw Morgan trembling, and the glow of flame gathering in her left palm. “I am _not_ weak,” she growling, standing straight.  “I am not a prideful person, but I _know_ that I mean something.  I have accomplished more in months that you ever could in a lifetime.  And I’m doing _good_.  I’m not hurting people, blackmailing them, ordering them to kill their lovers.  I’m fucking _helping_.”

“I taught you—!”

“You taught me hate and fear. I learned to lie and push away kindness. _You_ didn’t teach me to pull a bow, to look a person in the eye and know when they’re lying.  This…” She faltered a moment, looking back at Bull.  “Even without you, I could have done this.  From the beginning, my _mother_ taught me to be kind and strong. _That_ is what helped me build the Inquisition.  I built it with friends—”

Mari, who had remained silent the entire time, suddenly couldn’t hold back any longer. “He’s _not_ your friend, Morgan!  He’s Ben-Hassrath!”

“I know!” Morgan snapped. “I’ve known since the first time we met.  He has done nothing but prove himself loyal to the Inquisition, and to me.  Whoever he raises a flag for, he has helped us, and I trust him.”  Again, she looked over her shoulder, and this time she smiled. _“He’s the best thing that ever happened to me,”_ she realized.  Then she was looking forward again, and the smile was gone.  “You will forfit your claim on whatever lyrim mines you have in Orlais and Ferelden.  Your guards will be escorted back to the coast in the morning, and you both will be confined to quarters until the trial.”

She pushed away from the desk, folded her hands behind her back, and stalked from the room, Mari’s wails falling on deaf ears. Bull followed her out, face remaining stern and impassive until they were past the door.  Then he was smiling, and the expression broke out in earnest when he saw the smaller woman swept into the tight embrace of Sh’vara, and then the both of them lifted off the ground by Asala.  Hinter barked and pranced around them, tongue lolling and wholly ignoring the angry shouts from inside the room.

They left the hall before Mari and Dorothea were escorted out, Asala and Sh’vara linking arms with Morgan as Bull and Hinter trailed behind. Bull knew that she had missed her old friends, people she had trusted before she even knew him, maybe before Dorothea and the scars.  A nostalgic sort of ache welled up in his chest as he followed them down towards the Herald’s Rest.  He thought of the other imekari that he had grown up with, the friends of his childhood, and the few that he still kept in contact with.  Well, as much as he could.  The Ben-Hassrath didn’t exactly want one of their agents exchanging regular letters with a baker or a textile worker.

Then they were in the tavern, and he was instantly accosted by an exasperated Krem, who told him that Rocky and Skinner were arm wrestling again, and they had already knocked over two pitchers of ale. Hinter vanished from their side, snuffling about the floor for scraps of dropped food.  Dalish and Sh’vara began speaking in rapid-fire Elvhen, and Stitches seemed to be trying to make a pass Asala.  And there, in the middle of it all, was Morgan, her face bright and her eyes shining.  Her gaze fell on him and stuck, and he smiled.  Seeing her smiling back made him unreasonably happy, and he decided to let go of his fears for just a little while.  This was a good night, and he would enjoy it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I know that this chapter was a bit shorter than normal, and there are still a few loose ends. I PROMISE they'll get taken care of. This just felt like a good point to end the chapter. Let me know what you think!


	25. Subjected to His Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this will be addressing some personal things between Morgan and Bull, as well as both Dorian and Cole's personal quests. I feel like the name for Cole's quest fit them both, especially when you consider what Halward tried to do to Dorian.

 Subjected to His Will:

           

The fear wasn’t gone, not completely. Just being too close to the old woman and her embrium perfume still made Morgan’s heart pound and panic tighten its hold on her chest.  Looking into those hard eyes still made her think pain, darkness, and the smell of her own blood.  But the fear had lost its power.  Dorothea was not invincible, not untouchable.  The Inquisition had allies in the Free Marches, and they didn’t look very kindly on those that attacked their investments.  The lyrium trade would suffer, but Dorothea was gone, and so was Mari.  The memories were forever, but their hold on her was considerably weaker.

The repairs to the lyrium vaults were going very well. The Wardens stationed at Adamant had had to learn quickly how to deal with masonry, so they helped the dwarves and mages that tended the volatile but necessary material.  Minaeve was recovering swiftly, but Asala still seemed guilty that her attempt to help the younger mage had resulted in three broken ribs.  As a result, Asala did her best to help Minaeve with her continuing research.  That, in turn, resulted in the two of them spending a great deal of time with Dagna in the undercroft.  Somehow, that attracted Sera as well, though she seemed more interested in Asala and Dagna to Morgan.  When questioned, she declared that Minaeve was shy, and ‘a bit nutty, but not elfy at all’!

Morgan knew she would always carry reminders of the dark corners of her past. She’d grown accustomed to that some time ago.  But they _were_ the past, and she had gotten something she knew most victims never even had a chance at.  Closure.  Most never got to confront people that had hurt them, and the abusers went unpunished.  She knew it wouldn’t change anything.  Dorothea would still be terrible, and would manage to rebuild whatever Morgan had taken from her.  But she was free.  Dorothea would no longer loom in the background, ready to reach out and take hold.  She knew that there was a great more that she and the Inquisition had yet to do, but it still felt like a victory.  At least of a sort.

There was one specific matter to attend to, first.

The decision had been made. As much as Morgan would rather Erimond live and suffer for his crimes, she couldn’t take the step back and separate herself.  He had hurt _her_ , and more importantly, people she loved and trusted.  It was possible she should have put the lives of the hundreds of Grey Wardens that had died because of him a bit higher on the list, but…  She couldn’t shake the images of Bull and Cassandra’s faces, pale and drawn as they faced their personal horrors in the Fade.  Two of the strongest people she had ever known had been reduced nearly to tears because of Erimond.

She knew that it wasn’t just him, and that Corypheus was really to blame. But she couldn’t touch Corypheus, not yet.  Couldn’t reach out and strike him, couldn’t bury a dagger in his kidney and watch the life drain from his eyes…  But she could kill Erimond.  She could execute him for the world to see, to show that the Inquisition would not be lenient on those that caused the death of innocents.  However much pain Gereon Alexius had caused her, she didn’t hate him anywhere near as much as she hated Erimond.

There had never been a question that Morgan would be the executioner. She knew that there were innumerable people she could have called upon to perform the task.  She knew that Bull would have been glad to step up, and Sera?  She would have loved to fill the Magister with arrows.  But for the people outside her inner circle, it had to be her.  It had to be the Inquisitor meting out justice.  Morgan would need to be the one swinging the sword.

Morgan knew how to kill people. She knew all the soft places to stick something sharp that would end with your enemy dead or disabled.  Killing wasn’t the problem.  Beheading was.  As much as she would have liked to just slit Erimond’s throat, that wasn’t how things were _done_.  While normally quite happy to flout tradition and the ‘usual’, this wasn’t one of the times she wanted to.  The people needed to see him die as any other criminal, the way it had been done for centuries.  He couldn’t be special.  Some had wanted to burn him, yes, and the pain of that option had been frighteningly appealing to Morgan for a moment.

She could have gone to any warrior. She had seen them all behead an enemy in the field at one point or another.  And while she trusted Cassandra with her life, she didn’t quite trust her with her insecurities.  There was only one person she trusted not to judge her for not knowing, or for feeling uncertain.  It was not a happy subject, or something one just brought up casually.  Morgan spent the entire day dreading it.  Bull must have seen something of that, because that night he pulled her behind the Herald’s Rest and kissed her senseless.

When he finally broke away, he cupped her cheek with one large hand, watching her face. “You ready to talk about what’s been eating at you all day?”

Despite herself, Morgan felt a smile pulling at her lips, and snorted a soft laugh through her nose. “Doesn’t matter how many times it happens, it’s still a little eerie when you do that.  No one else has said a thing.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re really good at hiding it,” Bull said. “Red’s probably the only other one that saw it.”  The expression on his face was pained, but oddly soft.  He let his hand fall from her cheek to her shoulder, squeezing gently.

Morgan put her hand over his. “I need to know how to behead someone,” she said bluntly.  “With a sword.  All… official like.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t had a chance to tell him about her decision about Erimond yet.  Hell, only Josephine had known up until that point.  But his look told her that he was unsurprised.  He moved over to the bench that had made its away behind the building, and Morgan sat down next to him.  “Finally decided, huh?”

“As much as I’d love for him to rot in a cell for the rest of his life, he has to be seen to pay for his crimes,” Morgan said, voice stiff.

“So you’re doing this for _them_ ,” Bull said, giving a vague gesture towards the rest of the castle.  He wasn’t surprised.  Morgan did have a selfish nature, having had to look out for herself for so long.  But there was no erasing just how kind she was, and how much she cared about other people.  She knew that hundreds had suffered because of Erimond.  Soldiers had lost friends, and civilians had lost soldier husbands, wives, and family.  “You could give him to the Wardens,” he offered.  “Make him serve as one of them.”

Morgan’s half smile barely reached her eyes. “I considered it.  It was one of the options Josephine laid out.  Wardens often get a free pass to do as they please during a Blight, and that’s wrong, but…  But a lot of them _choose_ to be a Warden.  They willingly give up their lives to the cause, and there’s honor in that.  Erimond doesn’t deserve to serve alongside people like that.  He deserves to die.”

“And you can’t very well slice his throat in front of everyone,” Bull said. There was a disdainful sort of tone to his voice.  “That’s not _seemly_.  You have to cut his _whole_ fucking head off.  Just as much blood either way…”

It was impossible not to laugh, and for a moment she wondered at the sort of person she’d become, to laugh while discussing murder. “I know.  You already know I’m not afraid to flout tradition—”

“Says the dwarf _mage_ ,” Bull muttered, a twinkle in his eye.

Morgan nudged his ribs with her elbow. “But that’s how things are done.  It’s what they’ll want to see.”

“You know you _are_ allowed to do things that _you_ want, right?” Bull said.  “I mean I get you see this as a duty, but you _are_ allowed to do things for yourself.”  Koslun’s balls, where the fuck was that coming from?  Duty was _important_.  You did what life asked of you, tread the path laid out before you.  Putting your own needs ahead of the group was dangerous, it was _Tal-Vashoth_.  But that didn’t change how much he saw Morgan hurting, thrust into a role and doing her best to form herself to it. 

He saw her struggle to be what was expected of her, saw the expectations of others catching and tearing at her, weighing her down. She acted like a good qunari, doing what was need of her to benefit the whole.  He should be _glad_ she was like that.  But all he could see was how much pain it caused her.  She liked helping, that wasn’t the problem.  No matter his own ideals, he didn’t like seeing his friends hurting. 

“I have you, Bull,” Morgan heard herself say. “ _You_ are not a duty.  I _do_ have a duty to keep myself from going insane, but that’s not what you… what _we_ are.”  Her head lowered, hoping that the warmth in her cheeks didn’t show.  “Being with you is purely selfish.  It could be a danger to the Inquisition’s and my reputation.  But I don’t give a shit.  I’m doing this with you because _I_ want to.”

Some of the tension left him, and he smiled at her stubborn expression. “I know, Boss.  I’m…  That’s good.”  He had never doubted her feelings about their arrangement, or the honesty she treated it with.  But to hear her say it aloud, to toss everything aside and saying that she wanted to be with _him_ …  There was an odd sort of comfort in that, a warmth swelling in his chest.  Again his hand lifted and touched her cheek, thumb tracing the scar that cut across the side of her mouth.  “That’s really good.”

How had a conversation about beheading turned into this tender… thing? Moment?  Morgan couldn’t fathom.  But she leaned into Bull’s hand, the calloused texture pleasant against her soft cheek.  She kissed his thumb, and found herself smiling up at him.  Subject matter be damned, she couldn’t help herself.  Reaching up, she grabbed him by the horn and dragged him down for a kiss, pushing up from her seated position to meet him.

He made a noise of pleasant surprise against her mouth, parting his lips when her tongue teased along the seam. The hunger she met him with was surprising, and he was happy to let her take the lead, forming his mouth to hers, and letting her tilt his head with her grip on his horns.  It was a side he hadn’t seen before, and he _liked_ it.  He was grinning like a fool when she broke the kiss, and his arms snaked around her waist, drawing her to stand between his legs.

“Have I mentioned that I _really_ like it when you do that?” he said, voice a pleased growl.

More warmth colored her cheeks. “Thought you liked being in charge,” she teased.

“Sure I do,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like getting pushed around a little, too.”  He resisted the urge to lower his hands and squeeze her ass.  “Don’t think that’s where this is headed, though.”

Morgan sighed, letting herself lean into his chest, and rest her brow on his shoulder. “No.  Not… not tonight.”  Coming back up, she met his eye again.  “But if you ever wanna teach me how to tie you up, I’m game.”  She smiled, letting heat linger in her eyes for a moment and enjoying the way his pupil dilated ever so slightly.  That was definitely something to put a pin in.  They disentangled, and she sat beside him again.  “This is something I can do, right?  Like… strength-wise, I guess?”

“You don’t need a whole lot of strength to behead someone. Well, not execution style.  In a fight, it’s a whole different thing.  Anyways.”  He turned slightly to face her.  “The weight of the weapon does a lot of the work.  You put your power behind it…”  He touch her shoulder, squeezing at the muscles there.  Morgan tightened them reflexively.  “And you’ve got plenty.”  Watching her swing a sledgehammer in tandem with Harrit and another smith on some big project had _definitely_ made an impression.

“I know… I just…” Morgan trailed off into a grumble, dragging a hand over her face.

“You keep doubting yourself,” Bull finished for her. He knew she still heard her father sometimes, all the things he had ever said to her.  She’d probably heard them so often that they had become part of her own inner voice.  She _knew_ that they were lies, but still struggled to drown them out.  “You have to make it clean,” he said, speaking with not a shred of doubt.  He _did_ believe that she could do it to.  He knew she had the mental fortitude and resolve, as well as the physical strength.  “One good blow.  As much as I know quite a few people would enjoy watching him bleed out slow—you and me included—you’re wanting to do this right.”

“Right, so no lifting up his severed head and yelling a challenge to the sky,” Morgan said. Humor made it easier, helped her keep her distance from the rage and hatred that still frightened her with its ferocity.

“Yeah, you might offend a _few_ people if you did that,” Bull chuckled.  “Some of ‘em would probably cheer, though.”

Snorting, she shook her head. “Yeah, probably.”  She let herself lean against him for a moment, relishing in the comfort that such simple contact to bring.  She liked leaning on him in the dark just as much as she loved biting his neck until he snapped and finally pinned her under him.  Her hand brushed the side of his, and she curled her pinky finger over his own.  “Thanks.  Talking helped.”  It always did, as long as it was with Bull.  She kept her head lowered, hiding the smile that spread so wide her cheeks hurt.

“Can show you a few pointers tomorrow in the training yard if you like,” Bull said, wondering if he should turn his hand and weave the rest of his fingers through hers. It was more than a little unsettling that he found himself unsure of what she wanted.  But it felt good like this, comfortable and easy.  He knew what it was like to fit into a role, to form yourself into the tool that was needed for the job at hand.  But somehow, he fit here, without any effort.  Just as he was, no role to play, no motive, he could just _be_. 

He knew the satisfaction one got from properly executing their role, from fulfilling a task set to them. Without doing a thing, he found himself filled with that same satisfaction.  He looked down at the top of her head, her body slanted towards him but not quite touching.  Bull’s hand left hers, stroking the side of her arm with the back of his knuckles.  She must have felt his gaze, because her head turned up, a shy smile lingering on her lips.

Bull wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t that she seemed to want or need it, it was that _he_ wanted it.  He was familiar with selfish wants, and indulged them often.  But this… it had been about what his friend _needed_.  He’d wanted to sleep with her before that, but at the time, it might have done her more harm than good, so he’d kept his wants to himself.  But now…  Now, he had someone asking what _he_ wanted, wanting to attend to _his_ needs.  Morgan let him want and didn’t judge him for it.  It wasn’t just about her anymore, he realized, hesitation and alarm twisting in his gut.  This, whatever they had, he wanted too.   Something for himself, outside his role as dictated by the Qun.

It was terrifying.

In the same moment fear swept through him, he also knew that wasn’t going to stop. He wanted to just have this _one_ thing that was truly his; that they couldn’t take or change or dictate.  His fingers slid into her hair, but instead of tilting her head up for a kiss, he just lowered his head and touched his brow to hers, his eyes closed.  He couldn’t be there forever, but it was a good place.  A _safe_ place.  Fuck, the usual background noise of constant aches and pains hardly fucking mattered here.

There was something terribly deliberate in his touch, in the slow way he moved, setting himself solidly, relaxing into the position. And it was painfully tender.  Gentle and soft and _loving_.  It was terrifying, and anxiety laced in her chest, heart pounding against her ribs.  How that this happened?  She had been talking about how to chop Erimond’s head off a few moments ago, right?  She closed her eyes, pressing gently back into his brow with hers.  Somehow, it felt more intimate than anything else, even though they had laid naked in bed together.

This wasn’t passion and heat, teeth on skin and grips so tight they would bruise. This was soft and sweet and _pure_ , a word Morgan never thought to associate with herself or Bull.  It was also perfect.  She would be happy to remain in this sliver of time, letting the rest of the world fall to ruin so long as she could stay with Bull like this.

_“Oh.”_ The realization slammed into her, shattering the softness of the moment.  He was more than her friend.  She didn’t know when the change had happened, but she knew there was something beyond friendship between them.  It wasn’t love. _Couldn’t_ be.  But there was still, undeniably, _more_.  Words bubbled up in the back of her throat, trying to give voice to the confusing thoughts swirling around her head.  Instead she swallowed them in favor of something more orderly.

“Thank you, Bull. Will you be there?  It’s… The execution is the day after tomorrow.”  She scratched the back of her head.  “I mean, I know it sounds like a shit date, but…”  Her voice didn’t shake, and she felt proud that she was able to force back the silly tenderness, while keeping the calm of the pleasant moment. 

Bull eased himself back, pulling away from the softness and falling once more into the comfortable role of friend. It wasn’t really a role, anymore though.  It hadn’t been for a long time.  But he didn’t dare think about it too deeply.  “Sure, Boss.”

 

000

 

The execution was swift. Erimond yelled things about being freed from his physical form to truly join his master.  But when Morgan lifted the sword, she saw him tremble, and heard the choked sound that caught in his throat.  The sword was heavy, the metal cold in her hands.  She hesitated only once, looking at the man tied and bound with his head on the block.  Then she remembered Clarel, dragging her mangled, dying body over the stones away to deliver once last blow against her enemies.  The sword came down, and Morgan’s arms jolted with the force of the impact.  But her aim was true, the head dropping into the waiting basket and a savage roar rising from the crowd. 

Killing like that was different. She knew it wasn’t like any of the deaths brought by her hands before.  It hadn’t been in battle, it hadn’t been a contest of wills and strengths that she had won.  For all that he was a criminal and _deserving_ of pain and death, Erimond had still been defenseless, and she had killed him.  She _knew_ it shouldn’t bother her, and she _was_ glad that he was gone.  But the moment still sat like a stone in her gut, heavy and immoveable.  The impact had been far less than many she had endured, but she could still feel it in her arms that night when she went to bed, curling around Hinter and burying her face in his neck.

 

000

 

Anger was the first thing that Morgan felt, and the urge to hit something bubbled up so quickly she very nearly tore up the letter that had been pressed into her hands. She had managed to excuse herself from mother Giselle without swearing our shouting, and that was something to be proud of.  There was no question that she would tell Dorian about the letter, and about the lengths his father seemed to have gone to.  But she was also of a mind to just go to Redcliffe herself, punch the retainer in the face, and leave.

She didn’t know exactly _what_ had caused the rift—‘rift’, _hah!_ —in the Pavus family, but she had started to suspect that it had had something to do with Dorian’s… _life choices_.  If that _were_ the case, Morgan felt slightly more inclined to set the bastard on _fire_.  She’d been practicing with Solas, and was actually getting very good at finding a way to focus the energy that seemed to bubble like a wellspring from the Anchor.  She was foreseeing a _very_ awkward conversation with Cullen in the near future, but that would have to wait until _this_ mess was sorted.

As she already spent a great deal of time in the library, no one questioned her arrival, nor her presence in the rows upon rows of shelves. Just a step away from turning the corner and coming into view of Dorian’s alcove, Morgan found her feet strangely glued to the floor.  He hadn’t talked about his family other than to say they were not on good terms, and she hadn’t pried.  He could share as little or as much as he was comfortable with, and she would ask no more of him. _This_ was sure to require explanations, if he even wanted her help.  The wanting didn’t matter; she was going anyways, but _still_!

This would force a great deal out into the open, whether Dorian was ready to share it or not, and that made Morgan exceptionally uncomfortable. But if Magister Pavus didn’t get what he wanted _this_ way, there were innumerable other ways that a man of his means had access to.   So she took another breath, and stepped out of the shelves, letter in hand.  Dorian was standing, arms crossed over his chest as he peered accusingly at the bookshelves before him.  His eyes flicked in her direction but he didn’t turn away.

“Finally have a moment to yourself?” he sighed. “Or are you hiding from that odd little man that teaches you and Sera how to turn yourself into walking catastrophes waiting to happen?”

Morgan laughed despite herself, and saw the corner of Dorian’s mouth twitch. “Yes, to the first, no to the second.”  She watched him turn and take a better look at her, eyes finally falling on the lightly rumpled paper in her hand.

The smile left his face, and Morgan felt a twinge of guilt. “Don’t tell me, another dowager with a ‘perfectly charming’ daughter that I simply _must_ meet?”  Morgan’s words stuck in her throat.  “No?  Ah.  Something more serious then.”  Then he waited, arms crossed over his chest, as if putting up a barrier between himself and whatever she was about to say.

“There’s… something you should see. No one else has seen it other than myself.”  She handed it over.  “And maybe Mother Giselle, since she gave me instructions, but I’m not really sure…”  She forced her mouth to shut and stop babbling nonsense.  “Just… read it.”

Dorian’s eyes lingered on her face for a moment, trying to read further into her tight, worried expression. He’d gotten better at reading her, or maybe she had let him start seeing more of her.  Either way, she looked genuinely concerned.  Having that look directed at him without any kind of ulterior motive was still a bit unsettling.  But he was slowly getting used to the fact that people in the south were ridiculously affectionate with those they considered friends. 

Finally, he turned his attention to the paper in his hands, smoothing it out where a nervous fist had curled a bit too tightly. Morgan found her heart hammering in her chest as the mage’s eyes scanned the page.  There were many ways to react to estranged family trying to contact you.  Joy, anger, fear, disgust, disregard… His eyes snapped back up.  “I wasn’t meant to be shown this,” he said, voice low.

“No. They wanted me to bring you to Redcliffe and just…  I dunno, push you in their direction?”  She shrugged, and then shook her head.  “Anyway, you’re not going alone to whatever nug-shit this is.”  Her tone was casual, as if she were stating that elfroot was particularly useful for healing potions.  “I’m not risking some jumped up priss Magister having some other ass knock you on the head and drag you off to Maker-knows-where.” 

The words had tumbled out without her usual careful calculation. She knew that open affection made Dorian suspicious and uncomfortable at worst, and awkward at best.  So she quickly added.  “With just Madame Vivienne here alone, we may truly descend into uncivilized war bands.”  There was also no one else in the Inquisition she liked drinking wine with and complaining about Orlesians with.

The warmth in his eyes was flickering and brief, but it was real. “Yes, I don’t think you could afford to lose me on some stupid whim of my father.”  He swatted the paper. “‘I know my son’!  Hah!”  Morgan could feel a tingle in the Mark, just enough to know that if Dorian were to suddenly start casting, it would probably be fire.  “What he knows about me could barely fill a _thimble_!  This is so typical!  And you’re probably right.  This ‘retainer’ is probably some hired thug contracted to, as you said, ‘knock me on the head’ and get me back to Tevinter.”

Morgan felt her own anger starting, hot and bright and buzzing under her skin, heating the back of her neck. “Your _father_ would actually do that?”

He looked away. “I’d _hope_ not, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”  He looked at the paper again.  “Let’s go then.  If it’s a trap, we can escape and kill everyone!  You’ve gotten quite good at that, haven’t you?”  He was joking, but Morgan could feel the fire he was keeping inside.  “If not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his ‘wit’s end’.” 

Leave it to Dorian to remain full of snark and sass, cool as winter even when he was probably feeling more inclined to start breathing flames. But Morgan’s smile wavered.  She knew about bad relationships with fathers, and was praying that Dorian hadn’t had to deal with something similar.  “Dorian… can I… would it be alright if… fuck…”  She rubbed the back of her neck.

“You want to ask why we aren’t… on good terms, don’t you?” he said, and he didn’t look or sound angry. Just tired.

“No—well, yes. But that doesn’t mean I _will_.  Before, you just said they didn’t agree with your choices, and you didn’t agree with theirs.  I mean, that’s pretty general but I understand that families can be shit sometimes.  Fuck.  I just mean that you don’t have to share everything.  You don’t ‘owe’ me because _my_ family came and shit all over the Inquisition’s front steps, or because of things I’ve told you.  I’m still going to help you.”

He stared at her like she had sprouted a head for a moment. Then his carefully controlled façade fell back into place.  He was glad Felix wasn’t there.  Granted, his old friend was spending a great deal of time working with Leliana, but he _knew_ that Felix would have been just as keen on coming with them as Morgan was.  He knew they couldn’t just go, the two of them.  There had to be a _reason_ to stop in Redcliffe.

“Please tell me there is at least _one_ Rift still left in the Hinterlands,” he said, marveling that the words were coming willingly out of his mouth.

“I think Dagna wanted some bear liver, too,” Morgan said, catching on and clasping her hands behind her back. “Lots.”

“No, no, it was _bile_!” Dorian said, expanding on their tale.  “Their bile was what our dear Archanist wanted.  She made it seem quite urgent, in fact.”

All Morgan could do was smile.

 

000

 

Morgan put a great deal of thought into who to take with them. She and Dorian couldn’t just go on their own.  He’d have been given leave to go on his own to attend to personal business, but that, of course, had already been ruled out.  Morgan’s first thought was to bring Bull, not just because she took him everywhere, but because she wanted to scare the retainer.  If he refused to be scared of _her_ , surely he would at _least_ be uncomfortable around a member of the race that had been at war with his people for centuries. 

Almost instantly she felt ashamed for wanting to play on the racist stereotypes of Tevinter, and thinking to pass Bull off as a huge, mindless brute. He could play that role to perfection, but there was so much more to him.  She also knew that he would be more than happy to play into all of the retainer’s expectations of him.  He’d be able to use it to his advantage, too, but Morgan decided against that particular course of action.  For a few moments, she actually considered leaving Bull behind for once, because even though his relationship with Dorian had improved, it was still _far_ from perfect.

But Bull was one of the best people to bring. He could spot any Tevinter agents that Halward might have sent to mingle with the common folk of Redcliffe, and he was a sneaky bastard, for all that he fought like a damn tidal wave.  Along with Bull, Morgan would have _liked_ to bring Leliana, if the Nightingale hadn’t been so busy with her work as spymaster.  Cole wasn’t an option, as she refused to risk him being anywhere near someone who might be a mage she didn’t trust implicitly.  Sera would probably throw some food item, and while Morgan would have loved to see that, it probably wasn’t a good idea.

That left Varric. He was a liar and had seemed oddly interested in the relationship between Felix and Dorian lately, probably for his book.  But he seemed to take the odd sniping friendship he had with ‘Sparkler’ somewhat seriously.  Well, as seriously as he took everything.  Despite his tendency to exaggerate, he was good at protecting his friends, and people his friends cared about.  Morgan might have to have a talk with him beforehand, but she trusted him to come along and keep his mouth shut and his pen away from anything that might happen in the town.

With the party decided, Morgan laid out her plan to close the Rifts most recently discovered in the Hinterlands. They lingered in hard to find places; caves, gullies, and in deeply forested areas that the Inquisition had only just been able to reach.  Thankfully, there weren’t many people in the areas, so there had been minimal interaction between demons and civilians.  Morgan also made a point of bringing up Dagna’s request.  The gathering of the bile could he handled by some of the field agents, but the killing of bears was easier if your party was made up of a sharpshooting dwarf that liked to leave elemental mines all about, a Necromancer, and a qunari Reaver.  Not to mention the frigging mage-dwarf-Inquisitor.

 

000

 

“That thing is creepy, Boss,” Bull grumbled.

Morgan looked down at the slender, nearly skeletal neck of her mount, then up at the rusted sword thrust through its head like some a macabre rendition of a unicorn. It still had skin.  And _some_ hair.  And there _had_ to be muscle in there somewhere, right?  It might have looked terrifying, but the creature was nearly as affectionate as Hinter, who was trotting alongside _Bull’s_ horse, instead of his Master’s new mount.  She sighed.

“Well… you’re not _wrong_ ,” she admitted.  “But she…he… it?  It listens very well and it doesn’t need to eat and also doesn’t shit everywhere.”

“She’s got a point, Tiny,” Varric said from his sturdy pony. “That monster of yours left a pile almost as big as Hinter.”  He looked back to Morgan and the bog unicorn.  “But he’s right, too, Hooks.  That thing is fucking weird.”

“It’s _nice_!” Morgan insisted, reaching out to stroke the leathery skin.

“The possessed horse corpse is ‘nice’, she says,” Bull muttered.

“Really, it’s not like it’s an Abomination,” Dorian sniffed from his own horse, a lovely, long-legged black mare. “Spirits often possess objects, and are drawn to causes that align with whatever idea or emotion they embody.  This one is… well I don’t know exactly _what_ it embodies.  Solas said a great deal about something noble and… well, I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“That’s not helping,” Bull said.

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I’ve got stubby legs, and this thing is narrow enough my hips don’t feel like they’re getting dislocated every few yards,” she said with an air of finality.  Hinter whined and huffed.  “Stop complaining.  It’s not like I’m replacing you with it.  Contrary to popular belief, Dwarves cannot ride Mabari into battle.”

“That would be pretty amazing though,” Bull said, expression brightening. “Dwarves with bows and knives and battle axes!  Riding these angry war dogs!  The opposing army would piss themselves!”

“In fear or from laughter?” Varric snorted. “Because most of the dwarves I know can’t ride anything bigger than a donkey.  And even most of them are shit at it.”

“A bit of both I’d expect,” Dorian chuckled dryly.

“Can we at least agree that that _thing_ is creepy as fuck?” Bull pressed.  Hinter barked his agreement, and Morgan rolled her eyes.

“This _thing_ is named Gracie!” she said imperiously, urging the bog unicorn to the head of the group.  Varric dissolved into gales of laughter, and didn’t stop until he was crying and gasping for breath.

 

000

 

They made it out of the Frostbacks before dark, putting up tents against a sloping rock face. Dorian spelled the ground under the horses, except for Gracie, who still made all the other animals nervous.  But it seemed to content to just linger on the edge of camp, occasionally lifting its earless head as if listening to the forest beyond.  It was a cold night, even with the ground spelled and the fire blazing.  Varric pulled out a worn hat and tugged it down over his ears.  Seeing the hat she’s made months ago so well worn—faded from the sun a bit, even—pricked something warm and soft in Morgan’s chest.

But she kept quiet, hand stroking Hinter as he cuddled up at her side under her cloak. Green light colored the white portions of his fur as her hand moved over him, his nose twitching whenever the Mark drew near his head.  Aside from that, he made no reaction to magic.  It felt good, and she smiled down at him, scratching him under the collar the way he liked.  He sighed and leaned into her.

“If you decided to stay here after all this, you’d blend in perfectly,” Dorian remarked, an odd sort of smile quirking his face. “You’re sure you’re not Ferelden?” 

“After all this, huh?” Morgan heard herself say. “That’s assuming we survive.”

“Well, considering your track record with surviving the impossible, Hooks, I’d say the odds are pretty good. You could retire in Ferelden and adopt all the strays.”  He was smiling, and there was a moment when his eyes sparkled that she actually thought he might believe in their survival.

“Isn’t that what I’m doing already?” Morgan said, throwing a glance around the fire and raising her brows. She wanted to hug her legs up against her chest, but instead curled her fingers loosely round some of the loose skin on Hinter’s neck.

Varric snorted. “Yeah, I guess so.”  He sighed, rolling his head from side to side until his neck cracked.  “So, I gotta ask.  We left without any warning.  You usually give us a few days heads up.”  He paused.  “I swear, that wasn’t a joke about Erimond.”

Bull muffled a chuckling snort into his hand. Morgan masked her flinch with a roll of her eyes.  “Let’s leave the terrible puns to just _one_ member of the party,” she said airily, shooting an accusing glance in Bull’s direction.

“Hey! My jokes are hilarious,” Bull shot back.

“As hilarious as you thinking those pants belong on anything other than a circus tent?” Dorian said, raising a single brow.

It was Morgan and Varric’s turn to muffle their amusement, Morgan drinking from her canteen and Varric busying himself with his pipe. “Is that some veiled comment about me being well endowed?” Bull said, the picture of mischievous curiosity.

Dorian’s smirk turned instantly to a disgusted scowl. “You are an insufferable thug,” she nipped, and Bull laughed.  Morgan dragged a hand over her face to hide her blush, letting her head hang and shaking it.  Whatever the future might hold, this, right here, was good.  She wouldn’t trade anything for it.

 

000

 

It was only on the road to Redcliffe that Morgan realized that she hadn’t been back since taking the Mage Rebellion in as part of the Inquisition. The town that met them couldn’t have been more different.  People milled everywhere, laughing, shouting, and fighting.  The road leading up to the village proper was lined with merchants, calling out their wares and prices, competing with one another.  When attention caught on the Inquisition party, Morgan put on her best ‘regal Inquisitor’ face and smiled her way calmly through the crowd.

They stabled their mounts, and paid extra to the stable hand that had to deal with Gracie. Because of the bog unicorn, they were left alone.  Morgan took a breath, turning to Bull and Varric.  “Dorian and I have some things to take care of in the tavern.  We want you outside listening, ready to come in if Hinter starts barking.”  She met their gazes in turn, jaw taking on its familiar stubborn jut.

Bull’s eye instantly went to Dorian, who met the look for a moment with and expression that was half pleading, half angry, and then quickly looked away. He turned his gaze to Morgan, his brow twitching with a silent question.  She just shook her head.  He felt the prickle of anger in his gut.  “You think we’re going to let you walk into something with you _warning_ us to be ready for a fight, without saying a word about what it is?”  The edge to his voice was sharper than he meant, but Morgan never flinched.

“It’s personal, and not your business,” she said without missing a beat, hoping he’d understand. Maker, the idea of him being _angry_ at her…

“Your safety _is_ my business,” he said, voice lowering dangerously close to a growl.

“Tiny’s got a point, Hooks,” Varric said, tone a bit more laid back. “There’s all kinds of people that would want to lay a trap for you.”

“Oh, for—! The ‘trap’ isn’t for her, it’s for _me_!” Dorian snapped.  “Some… family business of mine that she was contacted for.  It’s…”  Some of the fire faded, and he just looked tired and resigned.  “Just… watch our backs.  If anyone threatens your precious Inquisitor, I’ll set them on fire faster than they can blink, alright?  I _have_ managed to protect her before, if you recall.”

Bull realized that he was opening his mouth to say that she wasn’t his ‘Inquisitor’, but stopped himself. Dorian looked and sounded raw, and Bull knew for a fact he hadn’t slept the previous night.  Family shit made people weird.  “I like the idea of just you two going in alone even less now,” he said, sounding calmer.  He swallowed down his panic at allowing his feelings to burst so violently—so _publicly_ —and for losing control of himself for just a moment. 

“We won’t be alone,” Morgan said, telling herself she shouldn’t be touched by Bull getting angry. Instead, she put her hand on Hinter’s back. 

Bull looked at the dog, and found himself biting the inside of his cheek. He had seen the dog kill for his master—and for her friends—over and over.  He’d be beaten and clawed and cut, and still kept going.  Bull _liked_ the dog, and he couldn’t deny that Hinter was a warrior all on his own, as good as any person.  He felt raw and exposed, having let years of training slip away at just the _mention_ of Morgan walking into a trap without him.  It was terrifying.  People had _seen_.  Fuck!  He took a slow breath through his nose, and met Morgan’s eyes.

She was pleading with him, he realized, silently begging him to let Dorian maintain his privacy. Fuck, she was willing to _fight_ with him for that.  Bull knew, without a doubt, that she wouldn’t hesitate to send him back to Skyhold alone if he refused to do as she asked.  Where had that distrusting little archer gone?  He kept the smile to himself and shook his head.  “Whatever you say, Boss.”  He rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

But Varric caught the pain in his eye before it folded back into the depths, the same easy expression falling into place once again. _“Well, shit.”_ He looked at Morgan, and she was smiling.

“Thank you. Now, let’s get this fuckery over with.”

 

000

 

The Gull and Lantern was empty. Completely fucking _empty_.  The hair along Hinter’s back prickled and stood, ears standing forward and tail up.  “Well _this_ doesn’t bode well,” Dorian muttered, all of them advancing with light steps.

Hinter growled softly at the same moment someone stepped from the doorway at the back. “Dorian.”

Morgan saw a shiver roll its way down the mage’s spine, but his face betrayed nothing. He looked more resigned than surprised.  “Father.”  An edge crept into his voice, sardonic and sharp.  “So the story about a ‘family retainer’ was just… what?  A smoke screen?”

Halward Pavus stepped into the light. If Morgan hadn’t already had a deep-seated bias towards the man, she supposed he might have been considered attractive.  His dark skin and hair were similar to Dorian, but his nose was broader and less sharp.  “Then you were told.”  His eyes flicked to Morgan, sharp for a moment before a mask settled into place.  “I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor.  I never intended for you to get involved in this.”

Morgan’s anger surged, prickling and hot. She clenched her jaw to keep from spitting something scathing.  Dorian did it just fine for himself.  “Oh, of _course_ not!” he snarled.  “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the _dread Inquisitor_!  What would people _think_?!”  He was practically bearing his teeth, and Hinter advanced with him, as close to his side as he would usually be to Morgan, his own fangs starting to show.  “And what _is_ ‘this’ exactly, father?  Ambush?  Kidnapping?  Warm family reunion?”

The biting words seemed to roll off the older mage, and he heaved the sigh of an exasperated parent dealing with a stubborn child. Morgan felt heat in her palm; it would be so easy to twist flame into reality, to set the Magister’s fancy robes on _fire_.  She clenched her teeth until her jaw creaked.  “Considering you _lied_ to get Dorian here, he has every right to be furious,” she hissed, resisting the urge to throw in a few ‘fuck’s to get her point across.

Dorian’s hand shifted, resting for a moment on Hinter’s head as he turned. “You don’t know the _half_ of it!” he said, voice filled with exasperation.  Then his already flinty eyes hardened further.  “But perhaps you _should_.”

“Dorian,” Halward began, “there’s no need to—”

“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian said tightly. “My father disapproves.”

Suspicious confirmed, Morgan felt herself losing her hold on her anger. “And I like fucking qunari,” she spat back, a mix of shock and amusement springing to Dorian’s face.  “I’m sure he doesn’t approve of that either, but his opinion doesn’t really matter.”  The disgust on Halward’s face was clear and unmasked.  She met the gaze squarely, unashamed and nearly smiling.

“Exactly!” Dorian huffed, something grateful lingering in his eyes. “Why should anyone care? I have no idea!”

“This display is uncalled for,” Halward sniffed.

“No, it _is_ called for!” Morgan snapped before Dorian could speak.  “You _lied_ to get your son here!”

Halward looked pleadingly to his son, as if Dorian could control Morgan in any way. “This is not what I wanted,” he murmured.

“I was _never_ what you wanted, father,” his son replied, “or had you forgotten?”

“So bedding someone of the same gender is really that big a deal in Tevinter?” Morgan said, speaking as if Dorian were the only one in the room.

“Only if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard,” Dorian explained. His hand seemed to have anchored itself on Hinter now, who refused to look away from the older mage, his body pressed up against the side of Dorian’s leg.  “Every Tevinter family has been intermingling to create the perfect mage; perfect mind, perfect body.  The perfect _leader_.”  His voice began to rise in volume.  “It means that ever perceived flaw—every _aberration_ —is deviant and _shameful_.  It must he hidden.” 

His eyes turned accusingly to his father, who looked away. Morgan scoffed.  “So this is about who you sleep with?  He made you feel as if you had no place at home because you’d rather sleep with men?”  Yes, fire was _definitely_ seeming like the best option.

“That’s not _all_ it’s about,” Dorian murmured, voice faltering slightly.

“Dorian, please!” Halward begged. “If you’ll only _listen_ to me!”

“Why?!” Dorian spat. “So you can spout more convenient lies?!  To make it out like _I_ hurt _you_?!”  He surged forward, Hinter matching his steps.  “ _He_ taught me to hate Blood Magic!  ‘The last resort of a weak mind!’  Those are _his_ words!”  Morgan didn’t know who ‘he’ was, but his words clearly shamed Halward, and he could no longer meet his son’s eyes.  Dorain’s voice was close to breaking, and he began to pace, losing contact with Hinter when the dog kept himself as a barrier between the two mages, sneaking only one quick look at his master for reassurance.  “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?”  His voice finally cracked and when he turned, his face was maskless, full of betrayal and sadness.  “You tried to… _change_ me…”

“I only wanted what was best for you!” Halward insisted, taking a step forward. He came up short as Hinter snarled quietly, head lowering.  Morgan felt a swirling of magic from the other man, fear in his eyes.

Tasting ozone in the back of her mouth, Morgan flexed the fingers of her left hand. “Make one move on the dog, and I’ll kill you,” she breathed.  She felt the electricity crackle up her arm, the purple light casting new, flickering shadows.  Blood Magic.  Halward Pavus had tried to use _Blood Magic_ on his own _son_ , just because he liked men.  He’d wanted to remake his mind, making him into something _acceptable_.  How could anyone even think that?  What sort of twisted place raised a man that thought that _that_ was what was best for his son?  Halward stared, open-mouthed for a moment.

“You wanted what was best for _you_!” Dorian accused.  “You… and your fucking _legacy_!  Anything for that!”  There were tears in his eyes now, and Morgan was seeing red.  He spun away, giving his father his back and bracing shaking hands on the surface of a high table.  His shoulders trembled briefly, then went still with tension.

Halward took another step forward, and this time it was Morgan who growled. “Not another step, Magister Pavus,” she said, voice crackling with energy.  The edge vanished in a blink as she came to Dorian’s side, trusting Hinter to keep watching their backs.  “What do you want to do, Dorian?”

He shivered again, just once. The moments stretched on in silence, and Morgan felt Hinter return to her side, his head still tuned to watch over his shoulder.  “We’re leaving,”  Dorian said on a shaking breath.  He didn’t face his father again, and neither did Morgan.  Just as they came to the door and Morgan reached for it, it was yanked open from the outside.  Varric was there, brows tight.

“Thank fuck!” He grabbed Morgan by the arm and dragged her out, Hinter and Dorian swept along as well.  “The kid’s here.  Dunno how.  Something’s… wrong.”  Morgan realized that Bull wasn’t at the tavern entrance where she had left him.  Anxiety spiked back up; he wouldn’t have left her unless something bad was happening.  She broke into a run without further urging, following the other rogue through the crowd.

“You mean Cole?” Dorian asked, but all Varric did was give a vague nod.

Morgan picked out Bull’s horns easily above the crowd, and as they drew closer, saw him bend to put his face near the owner of an equally familiar hat. Cole was clearly agitated, staring across the path to a man bent in intense conversation with a dwarf.  The armor looked very much like that of one of the local Carta clans.  “Cole?” she did her best to get her breathing under control as she approached the spirit-boy.  “Cole, what is it?”

“Him!” the boy whined, urgency lining his tone. “ _He’s_ why the amulet won’t work!”

Bull’s eyes was wide, nervousness showing in the set of his jaw. “Showed up out of nowhere, boss,” he said hurriedly.  “Pretty sure that guy’s a Templar and—”

“He _killed_ me!” Cole protested, but somehow stayed still in Bull’s hold on his shoulder.

“What are you talking about kid?” Varric was equal parts confused and anxious.  “If he killed you, wouldn’t you be—shit!”  Whatever calming quality Bull had was obviously no longer enough.  Cole vanished from Bull’s hold in a puff of smoke, and all at once he was across the path, grabbing the alleged Templar by the front of his shirt and putting a dagger to his throat.

“Fuck! Cole, stop!”  Morgan was running again, shoving people out of the way.  Cole and the man were tucked into a corner against a wall, and no one seemed to have noticed them.

“You killed me!” Cole accused, voice broken and angry.

“What are—?! I don’t even know you!” the man cried as Morgan and the others reached them.  Cole didn’t look up.

“You _forgot_.”  The fact that the kind young man’s voice was filled with ice and steel was enough to make Morgan shiver.  “You locked me in the dungeon in the spire, and you forgot, and I _died_ in the dark!”  He pulled the dagger back, and Hinter leaped.

He caught the boy’s sleeve in his teeth, in the same moment Morgan pushed between them. “Cole, wait,” she pleaded.  “Hinter, follow!”  She pointed after the man that had wrested free and was running towards the water.

“Take it easy, kid,” Varric said, somehow having regained part of his composure.

Cole was… angry. “He killed me!  He killed me and _that’s_ why the amulet doesn’t work!”  He pointed accusingly.  “He killed me so I have to kill him back!”

“I mean… that kinda sounds fair,” Bull muttered. “If you were dead.  Which you aren’t.  Uh… right?”

The furrows in Morgan’s brow deepened. “Killed you?  But…  Solas said that you hadn’t _possessed_ anyone.  How could you be killed?”

“Body broken, bloody, banged on the stone cell, guts gripping in the dark dank, a captured apostate…” He lifted his head finally, blue eyes staring after the man and at nothing at all.  “They threw him in the dungeon at the Spire in Val Royeaux.  They forgot about him.  He starved to death.”  Horror crept in with realization as the anger left Cole’s voice.  He sounded heartbroken.  “I came through to help… and I couldn’t.  So I became him… Cole.”

“So that guy _was_ a Templar,” Varric muttered.  Morgan could already see the wheels turning in his head.  “Probably buying lyrium.”

Cole started pushing past them, but didn’t make a lunge or vanish in smoke again. “Let me kill him.  I need to—”  He stopped, hands curling slowly into fists, one still holding the dagger.  “I _need_ to.”

Morgan’s first instinct was to talk to Solas, but unless the mage could _also_ transport himself hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye, that wasn’t an option.  Her heart hammered in her chest.  This was all tied to Cole’s nature.  There had been some talk before, about the amulet.  Varric had pointed out that Cole wasn’t a spirit or a demon, he was far too much like a person to truly be either.  Morgan had kept silent at the time, but had been more inclined to agree with Varric, even if Solas _was_ more knowledgeable about spirits than anyone she knew.  She _knew_ that something important was happening, even if she couldn’t put words to it.

It didn’t take a spy to see that Cole was hurting. The Templar had hurt Cole when he had been human.  And _this_ Cole, that wasn’t quite human or spirit, was still tied to that past.  It kept him stuck, too human to be a spirit, and too spirit to be human.  Stuck in the middle, he was vulnerable to binding by another mage.  Morgan’s heart was hammering in her chest.  This was _important_ ; what if she did something wrong?  What if she hurt Cole? 

But she couldn’t leave him like this, twisting on his feet and looking pleadingly at him. Before she could speak, Varric stepped forward.  His hand brushed Morgan’s elbow reassuringly as he moved past her, bringing up Bianca.  He met Cole’s eyes.  “You want revenge, kid?  Come with me.”

 

000

 

Hinter had cornered the man at the edge of a cliff, and the man spun with a small despairing cry when Varric and Cole came over the hill, with Morgan, Bull, and Dorian trailing behind. Varric obviously had a plan, and with how much he had shown he cared about the strange boy, Morgan was inclined to trust him.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” he cried, dropping to his knees.

Morgan couldn’t find it in herself to feel pity for him. How did you just _forget_ a _person_?  How did you lock a person away and _forget_ that they were there?  Her chest ached as if split in two, anger and pain tangling into a knot.  He couldn’t have simply forgotten.  He’d _known_ what was happening.  Each day, he had to have known that the apostate was suffering, each day praying he would just die…  Hot tears pricked her eyes and she clenched her jaw.  She couldn’t forgive that.  Cole could have his justice.

“Are we just—?” Dorian stopped as Bull put out an arm.

“Let him. You don’t just forget people,” the qunari muttered.  He was wearing his mask again, just like Morgan, cramming whatever he was feeling behind it.  Morgan looked back, her gut still twisting as she watched.

“Sorry isn’t going to help him now, is it kid?” Varric called. He was egging Cole on, pushing him… to what?  Cole had already decided to end the man’s life, why was Varric…?  The realization hit her sharply.  Varric believed Cole was a person, and was trying to help him get through his pain like real people did. 

“No,” Cole murmured, voice taking on the same strange edge.

_“Trouble is,”_ she thought to herself, _“most people are shit at working out their problems.”_ She hoped the spirit part of Cole might make him a bit better than ‘most people’.

Varric brought Bianca up, pressing it into the boy’s hands. “Then pull the trigger, and put him down like a mad dog!” he growled.  He was still putting on a show, and Cole didn’t appear to be paying attention to his thoughts.  “Do it!”

Cole yelled, a cry of rage and pain and twisted with tears. The trigger snapped back and the man screamed.  But the crossbow had been empty.  The frantic sound of frustration that erupted from the boy seemed to distress even Hinter, who took a hesitant step towards him.  Cole turned and confused and accusing look to Varric, who gently took Bianca from his shaking hands, his eyes searching the boy’s face.  “Feel any better?” he said gently.

“No.” His shoulders slumped, and Morgan crept around to get a look at his face, her own painted with clear concern.

Varric put a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t make it all go away,” he said softly.  “I learned that the hard way.  Hooks did, too.”  He nodded at the other dwarf, and Cole’s eyes shifted.

“You… you learn to live with it. It’s hard, but you can be better for it,” she heard herself say, offering what she hoped was a reassuring smile.  “Having known and understood pain can make it easier to help others experiencing the same thing.” 

Cole looked between them, and the trusting expression slipping across his face was heart wrenching. Then he turned to the former Templar, who was getting shakily to his feet.  “Forget—” he began, reaching out.

But Varric put a hand on his wrist and lowered it back down. “No,” he murmured.  “He needs to remember what happened.  You, too.”  With a hand on Cole’s back, he steered the boy around, Morgan hovering behind them and sneaking one last glance at the gaping man behind them.

 

000

 

“You told Dorian’s father about Bull,” Cole said, about halfway back to their campsite. “He wanted to laugh.”

Instantly, Morgan’s felt Bull’s eyes on her back. She wasn’t going to lie.  Not this time.  “I did.  And I’m glad.”

A smirk started to peek out from under Dorian’s glower. “I think his face was most certainly worth any mortification either of us felt.”

“Wait, your _father_ is here, Sparkler?”

“Yes, and we’re not going to talk about it.”

“Are you sure? Not even—”

“Yes. Not _even_.”

“Is he a Magister?” Bull looked between Morgan and Dorian.  “ _Please_ tell me that it was some puffed up, self-important Magister that heard you say you were fucking me!”  His eye was glittering, the nervousness melting away like steam from a hot bath.  “Fuck, that must’ve been amazing.”

Dorian looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or smirking. “Well, I must admit I’ve only seen him so horrified on _two_ other occasions, so… yes, I suppose it was.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, Morgan's VERY good at lying to herself. They are both in way over their heads and probably have no idea how to dig themselves out. Look out for a special guest appearance next chapter!


	26. Notorious Raider Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some plot, but mostly smut. This chapter ended up being a lot longer than expected, and most of that is the smut. Enjoy!

 

Notorious Raider Trash:

 

The raven reached them at the last outpost before the trek up the mountain to Skyhold. The others watched as Morgan read and reread the message, a smile as bright and earnest as the sunrise slowly spreading across her face.  When she finally looked up, she was beaming, her expression an open mix of joy and relief.  “My mother made it to Skyhold,” she said, half speaking to herself, eyes turning up to the sky and shoulders relaxing.

“From your reaction, I’m assuming she’s a tad more reasonable than other members of your family?” Dorian said carefully.

Folding the note carefully and pulling a dried cherry from her pack for the raven, Morgan nodded. “She’s about as far from Aunty as it’s possible to get.  Like me, but without the whole… angry thing.”

“You? _Angry_?  Never!” Varric said dramatically, even going so far as to put a gloved hand on his chest for effect.

Morgan rolled her eyes. “Hardee-har-har!”

“You very nearly roasted my father like a stuffed goose,” Dorian added. “You looked ready to start breathing fire any moment.”  But he was smiling, the expression pushing up the curled ends of his mustache. 

“Now I’m _really_ sad I missed that,” Bull said sullenly, though the look in his eye as he looked at Morgan was intensely interested.

“She’s too small to be a dragon, the Iron Bull,” Cole said softly. “And too soft.”

“Say that after you’ve seen someone try to stab Hinter,” Bull said stubbornly. “You ever seen a dragon protecting a clutch of eggs?  It’s… terrifying.”  His tone drifted and softened towards the end, giving the impression that he had found it anything _but_ terrifying.

They started walking again. “Wait, have _you_?” Varric asked, brows raised. 

Bull smiled, nostalgia softening his features. “Just once, when I was a kid.”  He paused, some of his usual sharpness returning as he considered his words.  Then the look passed and he continued.  “The Tamassrans would take us out into the field sometimes, showing us how some professions worked and what that life is like.  Can’t remember what we were studying but…”  He had to pause, huffing a laugh at some memory.  “It was in some quarry.  Mining, I think?  It was really far off, but apparently another mining group had stumbled upon a nesting site, and the dragon got pissed.”

“Understandable,” Dorian said. “Just imagine a horde of qunari stumbling into your children’s nursery without invitation; it would upset any parent.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Bull said.  “She took off and just started spraying fire, and her harem was running around all over the quarry.  Didn’t get to really stay though.”

“I would hope not,” Varric said, shuddering at some memory.

“Wait, _you_ fought a High Dragon with Hawke, didn’t you?” Bull said, eyes going from warm nostalgia to bright excitement.  “What was it like?”

“Awful,” the dwarf grumbled. “It took my eyebrows months to grow back.”

Smiling, Morgan let their chatter fade into the background, her eyes looking beyond the upward sloping path towards Skyhold. Towards _home_.  Would it feel even more like home now, with her mother there?  She wouldn’t deny her joy and excitement; she hadn’t actually _seen_ her mother in close to four years.  But she was also scared.  So much had happened to her since then, so much about her had _changed_.  Her smile slowly faded, and she was glad that she rode at the head of the group, where they couldn’t see the shift. 

With a breath, she put her mask back on, as easy as blinking. She didn’t want Rebka to know about everything, about how _angry_ she always felt, about how good it felt turn that anger on her enemies by way of her daggers.  Even with all that she had suffered, Rebka Cadash remained a kind, soft-hearted pacifist.  Having done her best to teach Morgan the same, Morgan was now terrified of upsetting her mother.  She had done things that she knew would hurt her mother’s gentle spirit, that would sadden her.  The worst part was… Rebka would blame herself.  She would blame herself for it all, and thinking of that made tears prick the corners of Morgan’s eyes.

But there was no stopping. Morgan couldn’t slow herself or the Inquisition just for her mother, no matter how much she loved her.  She knew that her mother would accept her, no matter what kind of person she was.  But to make her _sad_ …  The tears pricked harder, panic tightening in her chest.  Ignoring the mount that so unsettled him, Hinter fell into step beside Gracie, looking up at his master every few steps.  More than anything, Morgan wanted to stop and just hug him. 

More than anything, she wanted to run and hide.

 

000

 

A sigh of relief escaped Morgan when Rebka wasn’t waiting at the gates for them. They’d had to fight a lingering group of bandits at the edge of the Hinterlands, and the blood still lingered on her armor.  Passing off Gracie to a nervous but resigned stablehand, she hurried up to her rooms using all the back ways and Rogue tricks she knew, managing to avoid both Josephine and Cassandra.  Her bath consisted of a quick scrub of her hands and face, and then a change of clothes.  She was just stepping out into the main hall when Josephine fell upon her, all warm smiles and sparkling eyes.

“Inquisitor! Mistress Rebka is waiting in my office!  We were having tea when word reached us that you had returned!”

Anxiety retightened its hold, but Morgan smiled, excitement bleeding in. “Thank you.  Josephine, would you mind if—?”

“Of course! I have other matters to attend to, so take all the time you like!” the ambassador said brightly.  With a grateful smile, Morgan left Josephine in the hall, heart pounding as she followed the familiar steps to the warmly lit room that served as Josephine’s office.

Rebka sat facing the fire, her graying, ash-blond hair pulled into a small knot at the back of her head. “Mama?”  Morgan’s voice cracked with the syllables, and the tears welled again as the woman spun around, blue eyes lighting up as they laid on her daughter.

“Morgan!” The dwarf sprung up, dislodging a dark, gray faced cat from her lap as she hurried around the chair to pull her daughter into an embrace.

The tears began in earnest, and Morgan’s shoulders trembled as she squeezed her mother tightly, face hidden in the other woman’s shoulder. She heard sniffling and realized that her mother was crying, too.  The cat meowed indignantly once, then began purring loudly as it wound circles around their legs, seemingly recognizing the other dwarf immediately.  They stayed like that for a long time, arms eventually aching as they squeezed each other, as if scared that the moment would shatter and turn out to be a dream.

When they finally broke apart, both were smiling, with wet trails down their cheeks. Rebka cupped Morgan’s face in her hands, running fingers over the scar on her brow and the one across the left corner of her mouth, pain flickering across her own features.  “Morgan…” 

“I’m alright, Mama, I promise,” Morgan said without thinking. She had gotten so used to lying to her mother about her own pain, trying to spare the already fragile woman.

“I’ve… I’ve heard so many things…” Rebka began haltingly. “And Dorothea—”

“Dorothea isn’t something we have to worry about any more,” Morgan promised. “I’ve sent messages to everyone, letting them know what happened.”

“What _did_ happen?” Rebka said, bringing Morgan around to sit in the armchair beside her own. 

Hand still laced with her mother’s, Morgan took a slow breath. “She tried to use the Inquisition like she uses everyone else.  I didn’t let her, and she threw a tantrum like a spoiled child.”

“I heard there was an _explosion_!”

How did one tell her mother that an explosion in the lyrium vaults in one’s own castle was hardly the worst thing that one had endured? Morgan thought about all her new scars, particularly the ones cutting down the back of her arm, reminders of the dark future witnessed in Redcliffe.  “I’ve… I’ve been through worse.  I’ve had whole mountains dropped on me; a few loose stones is nothing we can’t handle.”  She offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile.  She knew instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say, but Rebka was already frowning

“There are so many stories about you, Morgan…” She reached out, pulling Morgan’s left hand into her lap and turning the palm upwards.  The Anchor flickered, casting a pallid green light on the older dwarf’s pale face.  “They’re saying that Andraste herself delivered you from the Fade, they’re saying you murdered the Divine with dark magic… they’re…”  She took a shaking breath and closed her eyes for a moment.  “You fought demons and mages and Templars and _Grey Wardens_ …” 

When her eyes opened again, Morgan knew Rebka was looking to her to deny it all, to assure her that she was still the same gentle young woman that abhorred fighting and conflict. Morgan felt her heart crack and shatter, because as good a liar as she was, she couldn’t give her mother what she wanted.  She _liked_ fighting, liked putting her strength against her enemies and _winning_. _That_ was secret she’d die before sharing with her mother.  She offered a sad smile, squeezing her mother’s hands. 

“I have been fighting, Mama,” she said. “A lot.  So many people are hurting and I’m trying to keep them safe.  There’s… My enemy.  He wants to destroy _everything_.  I can’t let him.  I _have_ to stop him.  I’m the only one who _can_ , because of this.”  She squeezed her left hand into a fist.  “I’ll keep fighting until he’s dead and can’t hurt anyone else.”

A soft hand lifted and cupped her cheek, and Morgan leaned into it. “He’s hurt you, too, hasn’t he?” Rebka said softly.  Unable to speak, Morgan nodded.  Rebka drew her daughter in, kissing the top of her head.  “You’re such a good girl, Morgan.  You always hated seeing people get hurt.”  Morgan slid from the chair to her knees, her head cradled in her mother’s lap as she lost the battle and began to cry in earnest.  “You’ve always been kind.  And so much stronger than you know.  It’s no wonder Andraste chose you.”

Rebka couldn’t have known how deeply her words cut her daughter, or how much pain and guilt washed over Morgan when she realized that she could never tell her mother what really happened in the Fade. She just held her daughter as months of pain poured out of her, kissing the top of her head and stroking her hair.

 

000

 

Morgan felt giddy as she walked her mother through Skyhold. Hinter had taken an instant liking to the woman, sitting politely and wagging his tail madly at her attentions.  Rebka’s old black cat, Nefret, had refused to leave the hearth in Josephine’s office, but the ambassador had seemed quite taken with her, so leaving her there hadn’t been a problem.  Morgan was torn; she wanted her mother to meet all her friends, all the people that had helped her since the Conclave, but she was also terrified of what her mother would think.  It wasn’t that Rebka wasn’t an accepting woman; it was that she was so fucking _gentle_.

Vivienne had seemed a good place to start.

The Enchanter was enjoying her own tea on her balcony, and smiled warmly when the two women approached. “Miss Cadash, a pleasure!” she said, taking Rebka’s hand gently.  “I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous?”  While her words were flowery, Morgan could feel the thread of honesty in them. 

“Not at all, the Inquisition has taken excellent care of me,” Rebka said warmly.

“The Inquisitor has worked hard to make this a welcoming place for everyone,” Vivienne said. “We may disagree from time to time, but you have raised a wonderful daughter.”

As the two continued, Morgan found her awareness fading in and out. _Vivienne_ had _complimented_ her… to her _mother_!  They didn’t linger in the balcony long, and Varric was who they met next.  Rebka demanded to know why Morgan hadn’t told her sooner that she was rubbing elbows with the author of  Hard in Hightown, and Varric promised her an autographed set.

Cassandra was stiff and formal, but her sternness melted when Rebka thanked her for protecting her daughter. The Seeker actually _blushed_.  Sh’vara greeted the woman happily, and Rebka was glad for the familiar face.  Rebka balked at the sight of Blackwall at first, her shoulders tightening and hands fidgeting in front of her.  But he was a perfect gentleman, giving her plenty of space and making an excuse that he had other matters to attend to.

“You were right,” Rebka muttered as they started back across the courtyard. “He _does_ look like Sars.  You’re sure he’s…?”

Morgan offered her best reassuring smile. “He has his secrets, but he’s a good man.”

Rebka flicked a nervous gaze over her shoulder. “Good.”

Bull was outside at the edge of the training ring, watching a Warden go up against Krem. He saw Morgan and her mother coming, and the smile on his face became oddly set for just long enough for Morgan to notice.  “Maker, that’s a big Tal-Vashoth!” Rebka said softly.  “And I thought Asala was big…”

“That’s Iron Bull,” Morgan said, stifling a smile. “He’s…”  She paused, suddenly comply lost for words.  It took a moment, but she finally decided on, “he’s a good friend.  He’s also my bodyguard.”

“It’s a wonder you still have enemies left. You’d think they’d run screaming at just the sight of him,” Rebka muttered as they neared, and Morgan couldn’t help but smile.  She saw Bull keep his posture relaxed, his expression easy and unassuming.  She knew he was trying to be as unintimidating as possible.  Hinter running up and putting his paws on Bull’s chest while his tail wagged furiously helped a great deal.

“Hullo, Bull,” Morgan said brightly as Hinter dropped back onto all fours.

“How’s it going, Boss?” He nodded at Rebka.  “Boss’s mom.”

Morgan laughed aloud at that, and Rebka smiled. “This is Rebka Cadash.  Mama, this is Bull.”

“It’s _The_ Iron Bull, technically,” Bull huffed in pretend annoyance.  He offered the hand _not_ missing any fingers to the older woman.  “But call me whatever you like.”

“If you want me to use ‘the’ I will,” Rebka said, shaking the massive hand firmly. “It’s _your_ name, after all.”

Bull paused, staring down at the woman. She was shorter than Morgan, but not by much.  Her face was creased with wrinkles that make him think that her eyes crinkled the same way Morgan’s did when she smiled.  Her ash-blonde hair was going gray, but her blue eyes were bright and lively.  Her clothes were simple blue and cream garments, a dress and a shawl with simple boots.  There was wariness in her eyes, but that was expected. 

His name, huh? He’d chosen the name when he came to Orlais, because he couldn’t just go around with his title under the Qun.  It had been necessary for his role as Tal-Vashoth.  It had been a title, a reminder that he was, in fact, _not_ a mindless implement of death.  The Iron Bull had been a role, a part to play while he served the greater good.  And here was this little woman, holding onto Morgan as if she never wanted to let go again, smiling politely up at him and willing to use the name he had chosen for himself, _exactly_ as he had chosen it. 

 _Hissrad_.

The name came unbidden, as much a part of him as his scars. At least he’d _thought_ it was.  It felt strange to think it now, here, with these people, like a pair of shoes he’d outgrown but hadn’t discarded.  He was still an agent, still their ‘liar’.  But he was ‘The Iron Bull’ to these people.  That was how they knew and accepted him, how they saw him.  There was nothing behind that for them.  He found himself smiling.  “Bull’s fine, ma’am,” he said.  “Heard a lot about you from the Bo—Morgan.”  He saw color spread under Morgan’s freckles at the use of her given name.  “Glad you made it to Skyhold alright.”

“I’m sorry my aunt caused you trouble here,” Rebka said seriously.

“Ah, we’re pretty tough,” Bull said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Morgan’s made sure of that.”

He wanted the woman to like him, he realized. If he wasn’t trying to work an angle with them, Bull didn’t much care what people thought of him.  There was no angle to work with Rebka, but he still genuinely wanted Morgan’s mother to like him.  Fuck, this was weird.  Was this what other people did?  Meeting the parent of the person you were sleeping with?  Did Rebka even _know_ about that part?  Morgan _could_ have written her about it…  Then he saw Rebka’s eyes had slipped back to her daughter, and that Morgan hadn’t noticed yet.  Rebka had this knowing sort of smile on her face, and then it slid over to Bull, and she _winked_.

Oh, she knew alright. Whether she was as observant as her daughter, or it was just ‘mother’s intuition’, he actually wasn’t sure.  But she knew, and Bull wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  The knowing look was gone when Morgan looked back, and Bull became certain that her keen observation skills had indeed been inherited from her mother.  Then Rebka reached out again, patting Bull’s forearm.  “Thank you for keeping her safe.  Maker knows, she needs all the help she can get these days.”  There was no veil over her face, no mask and not even a hint of effort to hide her emotions.  The raw honesty struck a chord with him, and he felt the same uncomfortable twisting in his gut, now accompanied by some odd lightness in his chest.

It was only an instant, but Morgan saw the mask slipping from Bull. She smiled.  Her mother was sweet and gentle, but there _was_ some sharpness to her, and it always surprised people.  But seeing her mother smile honestly at Bull—who was incredibly important to her—made her nearly feel lightheaded.  Instead of the tightening of anxiety, something soft swelled in her chest, and she suddenly couldn’t stop smiling.  She was still smiling when they waved good-bye, drifting back towards the castle.  Morgan wanted to show off the library.  Before they started up the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder, and saw that Bull was still watching.

“You always did have a soft spot for people and things that others wouldn’t give a second glance,” Rebka said, breaking Morgan from her reverie.

“What?”

“You loved all the patched up and battered toys so much better than the new shiny ones.” She was smiling fondly now, and patted Morgan’s arm.  “You told me they deserved just as much love as anyone else.  I know that people aren’t toys or things, but…”

“Bull isn’t—I do _not_ love him,” Morgan rushed out.  “Not like… like _that_ …”

The other dwarf blinked, looking slightly surprised. “Oh.  Are you two not…?”

Morgan scratched the back of her head. “Well, we _are_ … together.  I guess?  It’s not like flowers and poetry and all that shite, but…”  She took a breath, resisting the urge to dump all her confusing feeling out on the steps up to the main hall.  She also didn’t feel good about telling her mother she was having kinky bondage sex with him.  “It’s… good.”  The smile pulled at her lips, pushing through the tangle.  “He’s good for me,” she whispered, unable to meet the glowing smile her mother was giving her now.

“That’s all that matters,” Rebka said. Morgan could tell that there was more that she wanted to say, but she just kept smiling, squeezing Morgan’s arm as they wandered up to the library.

 

000

 

Varric was minding his own business, and hadn’t done anything particularly worthy of anyone’s ire. Well, at least not _recently_.  But, apparently, whatever god or gods there were didn’t give a shit.  There was no letter, no warning.  Isabela, the self-titled ‘Queen of the Eastern Seas’ just slid into the seat across from him by the fire, grinning hugely.  He stared.  For a very long, silent moment.  Then he groaned, and dropped is head into his hands.

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Varric.  Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“What are you _doing_ here, Rivani?” he muttered through his hands.  “There isn’t a port anywhere _near_ here.”

“I had a letter from Kitten, and I got curious,” Isabela said casually.

Varric laid down his fingers. “You’re curious about a lot of things.  What made you climb all the way up the fucking Frostback Mountains?”

There was a glimmer in the pirate’s golden eyes, one Varric was very familiar with. It didn’t mean the kind of trouble that ended with buildings exploding, but it wasn’t good either.  “I met this charming little woman on the way from the Free Marches.  Rebka was her name.  She said was coming to visit her daughter.” 

_“Fuck.”_

“She said such nice things about this daughter that I thought she might be worth visiting,” her eyes were positively dancing, catching the firelight almost as much as her gold jewelry. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me that your new friend was so pretty?”

“Oh for… I’ve made a lot of new friends, Rivani.  You’re going to have to be specific.”

“The _Inquisitor_!” Isabela said, leaning forward slightly.  Varric wasn’t sure if she was trying to show off her cleavage on purpose or not, but he kept his eyes solidly locked above her shoulder.  “She is _precious_.”

“You notice the qunari when you came in?” Varric said.

“The one with the broken horns or with the rack almost as wide as his shoulders?”

“The latter.”

“Yeees?” She tilted her head, waiting for him to get to the point.  Her new bandana—still a dark royal blue—looked like it might have been cut from some fancy lady’s gown.

“The Inquisitor is sleeping with him.”

Isabela’s eyes widened. “They’re…?  Seriously?  With her being so tiny?  How does that even…?   Andraste’s tits; she’s more ambitious than I thought.”  Then her wide mouth pulled into a thoughtful pout.  “From what I’ve heard, he’s Ben-Hassrath.  Proper Qunari-qunari.  Thought they didn’t do the relationship thing?”

“He is, and they don’t… but…” He dragged a hand over his face, wishing that he drank.  Alcohol sounded pretty good about now.   “And neither does Hooks, supposedly.”

Isabela had to grin. It seemed that no one was safe from his nicknames, even if she’d found hers terribly unimaginative.  “So they’re just fucking?”

“Oh, come _on_ , Rivani!”

“I’m just _asking_ ,” Isabela sniffed.  “There’s no need to get shouty.”  Varric sighed.

“Varric, you remember what I told you about the Hero of Ferelden?”

Another groan. “Yes,” he sighed.  “You told it in excruciating detail even when I asked you not to.”

There was a fond, nostalgic smile on Isabela’s face now. “Carver _asked_!  She and that ginger rogue… they were so very pretty together.  And of course you remember the time with Hawke.  Before she and Kitten fell so madly in love.”

“I found you two on my _dinner_ table.  I used to _eat_ there!”

“Well… there was _some_ eating going on, if you remember.”

No, he did _not_ want to remember that, thanks.  “Andraste’s freckled ass, get to the point.”

Her clear, bright laugh was familiar, and even though she had just brought up an unpleasant and awkward memory, the sound was still nostalgic. “So far, I’ve slept with the last two big heroes that the world has managed to scrape up whenever things got nasty.  I was thinking about making it three for three.”

Varric stared in disbelief. She couldn’t be serious.  No, wait, _yes_ she could.  This was Isabela.  Again, he hung his head in his hands, and wondered if he really had pissed the Maker off.  That was the only reason this could be happening.  That, or Hawke just wanted to punish him for not writing to her and Merrill more often. “This sounds like something you and Hawke would come up with while drunk,” he muttered.  “Or was it that Crow friend of yours?”

Again that high, clear, bell-like laugh. “I can’t remember where it came from.  But with the civil war in Orlais, sailing has been a bit tedious.  I figure I needed a vacation.”

“In Ferelden.”

“Beer is cheap.”

“In the Frostback Mountains.”

“Lovely views.” She waggled her eyebrows.  “Especially the people.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Here’s hoping!”

 

000

 

Rebka retired early, and Morgan could run down to the Herald’s Rest fast enough. She loved her mother, and was glad that she had arrived, but she still didn’t quite trust herself.  She might say something callous that could upset her.  The execution of Erimond loomed in her mind, and a few drinks at Bull’s side sounded like just the thing to soften the edge of those thoughts.  When she arrived, however, she found that Bull wasn’t alone.

One of the loveliest women that Morgan had ever seen was leaning against the wall near where Bull sat, and his head was turned towards her. Morgan watched their body language as she approached, a bit slower than normal.  Bull was sitting up instead of his usual relaxed slouch, his elbows on his knees and hangs hanging loosely.  Instead of having his legs kicked out and ankles crossed, they were bent, feet flat on the floor in case he had to stand quickly.  It was also an indicator that he was interested in whatever the woman had been saying.  The woman was out of arms reach, but as Morgan got closer, she glimpsed a dual-dagger harness among her traveling clothes.  The gold-enameled handles of the weapons were visible over each shoulder.

The Rivani-looking woman was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed under an impressive chest, which was accentuated by her low cut shirt and the immense gold necklace that stood out beautifully against her dark, gold-brown skin. Fuck, she was pretty.  Morgan came around on Bull’s side, fully facing the woman.  There was something vaguely familiar in her wide nose, golden eyes, and full mouth, but Morgan couldn’t place it.  “Evening,” she said, folding her hands behind her back and putting them close to her belt knife.  She really didn’t want to fight someone so pretty.  Because, _Maker_!

“Hey, Boss,” Bull said, eye flicking to her for just a fraction of a second before going back to the woman. “This is Isabela.  Said she was a friend of Hawke’s.”  His tone was cool and easy, but knowing mirth glittered in his eyes.  He’d seen Morgan’s dog-eared copy of The Tale of The Champion a few times in her room, usually on her bedside table.

Morgan’s eyes widened, realization slamming her in the face and making her feel the need to sit down. “Isabela?” she said, nearly wincing at how silly and awestruck she sounded.  “Like the one that…um,” she glanced at Bull, “stole the Tome of Koslun?”

Bull actually snorted, looking at Isabela with a sort of incredulous and grudging respect. “That’d be the one.  How she managed to keep it out of the reach of the Antaam is beyond me, but…”  He gave an easy roll of his shoulders, not showing any signs of tension.  “Anyways, she said she wanted to meet _you_.”  Again, that knowing, expectant look glinted in his eye.

All the training in the world wouldn’t have stopped Morgan from blushing. Beautiful women had always made her tongue tied and bashful, and her usual ability to fake confidence seemed to have abandoned her.  The fact that she had read about said beautiful woman’s slightly heroic exploits multiple times wasn’t helping either.  She forced herself to take a few steps forward, and extended her hand, smiling.  “I suppose we’ve probably heard a lot about each other.”

Isabela stood away from the wall, wrapping her hand around Morgan’s and feeling a matching set of callouses. She pulled away slowly, making sure her fingers brushed the inside of Morgan’s wrist.  “I’ll say.  Though I think some of the impossible swashbuckling _you’ve_ been up to might top mine.” 

Morgan wanted to scream. She was getting _compliments_.  From _Isabela_.  Who had fucking given dagger wielding pointers to the fucking Hero of Ferelden!  A quick glance at Bull saw that he was well aware of how flustered she was, and was enjoying every second.  “I’m sure Varric will exaggerate them even further,” she said, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.  She had to resist the urge to tug at what remained of the lobe, nervousness making her feel twitchy.

“I’ve met the last two big heroes of the age, so I thought it was about time I met you,” Isabela said, without a hint of irony or mockery. “Will you have a drink with me?”  She smiled again, and then _winked_.  “Your impressively muscled friend is _more_ than welcome to join us.”  She turned the smile on Bull, and while he just raised an eyebrow a fraction, Morgan found the wheels in her head had started working again.  It sounded very much like Isabela was asking her for more than _just_ a drink.  And had told her to include _Bull_.  Every utterance smacked of seduction, but the idea that it was being directed at _her_ , from a woman as lovely as _Isabela_ —who could have had her pick of men, women, and anyone in-between—was more than a little mind-boggling. 

While she kept these thoughts to herself, Morgan managed to say, “so I heard that you met Sister Leliana as well? When you met Amelia Brosca?” 

A positively lascivious grin spread across the other rogue’s face. “Oh, yes.  We got to know each other _quite_ well.  I’d like to get to know _you_ better as well.”  Her eyes moved over Morgan slowly, from her boots to her face, lingering at her waist and chest before looking her pointedly in the eye.

Then she looked to Bull again, and the appreciation was obvious. Morgan was having a bit of a hard time connecting the hungry looks that Bull so often gave her with the fact that someone as attractive as Isabela had turned that sort of expression on her as well.  Pretty women didn’t usually pay her such specific attention.  Then there was the fact that she was inviting Bull along, too, and _that_ was painting all sorts of distracting pictures in Morgan’s head.

Thankfully, Bull seemed to take the proposition in stride more easily, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Sounds like a fun time.  Probably should iron out the details first.”  His voice was quiet, carrying just enough for only the two women to hear.  “It’s not something the two of us have discussed or laid out rules for.”

Isabela blinked for a moment. Most men usually jumped on the opportunity to watch their lover—or wife, or friend with benefits, or _whatever_ —play around with another pretty woman.  Isabela knew she was _very_ pretty, and would never apologize for it.  This Iron Bull didn’t appear to be like most men.  The best couples to play with were ones that communicated, and that knew exactly what they wanted.  While Isabela had been expecting something fun no matter what—assuming they agreed—this looked to be even better than anticipated.

“I’m told the Inquisitor has a penchant for sweet wines?” Isabela ventured. “I have a lovely Antivan Riesling I’d be happy to share.”  She turned to fully face them, arms loose at her sides.  “Drunken romps are fun, but if you want to go about this with a bit more forethought, I’m all for it.”

Bull’s attention returned to Morgan. “Would it be something you’re interested in?” he asked her quietly.  She knew that he wouldn’t be even the least bit upset if she said ‘no’.  He’d be polite and understanding, and that would be the end of it.  He might ask what about it made her uncomfortable, but Morgan knew he would never push.  Her chest felt as if it was tightening and expanding at the same time. 

“You heard right, Isabela,” she said, doing her best to project her usual false confidence. She didn’t think she was doing badly, but Maker, if the idea of being alone with _two_ such attractive people didn’t make her knees want to wobble…  “Bull has rules about alcohol, so this… this will just be talking.”  Color was high in her cheeks, but the smile wouldn’t stop.  She’d had _thoughts_ about bringing a third person into play, but there hadn’t exactly been time to bring it up with Bull.

Isabela looked visibly surprised, and it slowly morphed into a strange sort of smile as Bull got to his feet, his hand brushing reassuringly over Morgan’s shoulder before dropping back to his side. _“The big, scary-looking ones always_ do _tend to be the sweetest,”_ she silently reminded herself.  “Fine by me.”  A thought occurred to her, and she paused.  “Being all… fancy and important, d’you… have to sneak around?”  She made a vague gesture between Morgan and Bull.  “Try to look respectable?”

Morgan instantly pulled a face of disgust, and crossed her arms over her chest. “ _Yes_ ,” she said, voice sour with annoyance.  “I’ve considered having secret passageways constructed, but to build them his size would be a dead giveaway.”

That startled a laugh out of the other woman, and Bull grinned hugely. “You’re adorable, pet,” she said.  She leaned against the wall again, tapping her chin in thought.  “Do you have a place?”

Glancing at Bull, Morgan said, “his room, upstairs. You two could probably go up together just fine; he slept his way through half the Inquisition before… before we… got together.”  There was a hint of a question in her voice, as if unsure of how to label what they had.  “Anyway, it wasn’t uncommon to see him take people up there.  And with you being as fucking gorgeous as you are, it’d be even less surprising.” 

Isabela reached out and stroked a gentle hand down Morgan’s arm, the lingering touch lighting fire to her nerves. “You are precious,” she murmured, voice low and sultry and _maddening_.  She knew _exactly_ what she was doing.  Then she turned her attention to Bull, giving him another _long_ glance that Morgan completely understood.  “Lead the way then.”

 

000

 

No one questioned Bull and Isabela going upstairs together. Except maybe Krem, who had noticed that the Chief had _stopped_ taking random pretty people up to his room since Adamant.  He’d thought that maybe it had been the demons; the chief hated them enough that they might have been the one thing to shake his insatiable libido.  But then he saw the glance that Bull tossed quickly over his shoulder, right at Cadash, who grinned hugely back at him for a moment.  The Chief did his stupid ‘one-eyed wink’, and Krem felt his eyes widening.

No, surely not…

Morgan shook her head and half rolled her eyes at Bull’s waggling single eyebrow, and turned to leave. That could _just_ as easily be a friend fed up with the Chief’s—understandably—exasperating behavior.  And if it _weren’t_ …  Krem shook his head to dislodge _those_ unpleasant thoughts.  Cadash was pretty and all—especially the eyes—but picturing _the Chief_ any less clothed than he usually was just felt gross.  Like imagining your grandparents having sex.

He shuddered and went back to his ale.

 

000

 

Morgan dropped down from the ceiling with a muffled thump. “Dunno what we’re going to do when they get around to fixing that,” she muttered, partially to distract from the way her heart was racing.  To be in and enclosed space, not only with Bull, but the woman they were thinking about bringing to bed with them, when it hadn’t been discussed before, was more than enough to fluster her.

Bull was sitting on the edge of his bed, and Isabela—a bottle of wine in hand—was sitting backwards in the oversized wooden chair. Bull’s smile was soft, Isabela’s full of heat and consideration.  If Morgan didn’t melt into a puddle by the end of the conversation it would be a damn miracle.  Bull offered mismatched cups, and Isabela poured them all a generous portion.  Well, generous for her and Morgan, but barely a serving for Bull.  Morgan perched on the footstool that had appeared since her last visit, the padding covered in fading and threadbare brocade.  The wine _was_ sweet, fruity and bright.  Dorian would probably have had something fancier to say, but Morgan just knew that she liked it.

“I asked a bit about the both of you,” Isabela began. “People seem to think _you_ ,” she gestured to Morgan, “are already sleeping with your ‘ox-man bodyguard’.”  She spat out the words and quickly took a drink, as if to wash out the foul taste.  “But that’s just proximity.  Otherwise it’s mostly the Chantry boy Commander or that lovely mage from Tevinter.  At least as far as men go.” 

Morgan couldn’t help it, the lingering excited tension making her burst out laughing, Bull snorting against the rim of his glass. “Sorry,” Morgan said when the giggles had faded.  “Dorian is very, _very_ pretty but I’m very much _not_ his type.”

“Not his—Pet, you should be everyone’s…” She trailed off, thinking, and then gestured to Bull.  “Oooh, his tastes run in more _this_ direction?”

“Not that he’d ever admit it out loud,” Bull said. “Well, the ‘my direction’ part.”  Nearly everyone had taken note of how much time Dorian was spending with a certain newly made Grey Warden mage.  Anytime it was discussed in a negative light, those speaking somehow ended up either on latrine duty—soldiers—or with something rotten hidden in their rooms.  Sera probably had a great deal to do with the latter.

“That makes sense then. What about Chantry boy?”

The mess of feelings welling up must have made for an interesting facial expression. In Bull’s presence, Morgan couldn’t help but think of the time Cullen had caught them together.  Well, he had caught _Bull_.  But she also knew that he was a good man at heart, trying to cast off all the anger and fear that had hurt him for so long.  He had a great deal to answer for, but he was trying to be _better_.  He was also _very_ pretty, especially when flustered, and…  

Shooting an accusing look at the smugly grinning Bull, she resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She looked back to Isabela.  “I would think you would know him better, having spent all that time in Kirkwall,” she said.

If Isabela recognized it as a deflection, she didn’t say anything. “I definitely thought about it,” she said, taking a pull at her glass.  “He is _very_ pretty, in the innocent virgin sort of way.  But he was so wrapped up in being a _Templar_.” She made a face.  “Eh.  There were better ways to spend one’s time.”  It was obvious that Morgan had _thought_ about it too, and that the Iron Bull was _aware_ of those thoughts.  They were really turning out to be an interesting pair.  The Inquisitor was good at hiding her feelings, appearing to sip calmly at her wine, but there seemed to be more going on beneath the surface.  If you looked closely, anyways, which Isabela always did.

“Okay, so this _is_ a bit weird,” Morgan said, letting an awkward smile show.  “I’ve… well, like just about everyone else, I’ve read the  Tale of the Champion, and you were in it, and you helped the Hero of Ferelden, and now you’re _here_ , talking to _me_ …”   

The look in her eyes was almost disbelieving. Isabela wasn’t all that used to feeling, well… humbled.  If even a fraction of what she’d heard about Morgan Cadash was true… Fuck, being looked up to by someone like _her_ …  It was much easier to play at confident.  “I hope to do _much_ more than talk,” she said, smiling into her wine.

Bull chuckled as the color darkened Morgan’s ears. “Yeah, that part’s probably throwing her for a loop, too.”

“Shut up!” Morgan muttered. The qunari seemed to have the key to breaking down the other woman’s well-crafted emotional walls, laying her feelings bare.  It was… sweet, actually.  A bit like Hawke and Merrill, though not quite so tooth-rottingly sweet.  Taking a breath, Morgan met Isabela’s eyes squarely.  “Men aren’t terribly picky.  They take one look at my tits and want to get me in bed.”

“They are fantastic, by the way,” Isabela cut in. The genuinely bashful smile from the dwarf _did_ things to her.  She was _adorable_.

“I’m not used to compliments from pretty women,” Morgan mumbled. There was clearly more, especially with the way that Bull’s expression looked sad for just a fraction of as second.  “So hearing you say nice things about me, and _wanting_ me is… well, mostly uncharted territory.  Not that I’m not _very_ interested in exploring it, mind you.”  That cheeky smile came back, glittering with mischief.  She wasn’t all meek and bashful, not really.  Some people found that acting was easier than talking.

“Well if everyone’s agreeable, should we talk about rules?” Isabela sipped at her wine again, putting her chin on her arms where they crossed over the back of the chair. 

Morgan took a breath to speak, not trusting herself to say anything if she hesitated. “I have significant scarring on my back.  It’s… not pretty.  I don’t mind them being touched and scratching is… good, but…”  Her ears felt very warm.  “I don’t know if that matters or not.  As far as hard limits; dirty talk is fine, but nothing about being ‘disappointed’ please.”  She had gone over it all with Bull before, and while she _knew_ that it was good to discuss such things with every sexual partner, it was still awkward.  “Beyond that, I’m willing to try just about anything, but no non-sexual bodily fluids.”

“More than fair,” Isabela agreed. “I’m not into being restrained.  Grabbed and pulled around is alright, and a few swats on the ass is just fine.  Nothing to the face though.”  She looked to Bull.

“No blood play. If you bite or scratch too hard, that’s fine, but no drawing blood just for the sake of it,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“But normal biting is…?” She let the question hang.

“ _Very_ much appreciated,” he responded with that same stupid ‘wink’.  “Her, too. _Especially_ the neck.”

“Ooh, I can work with that,” Isabela purred. “Anything else she likes?”

The mild fuzz of alcohol only intensified the heat that had settled between Morgan’s legs, and she only _just_ managed not to visibly press them together.  Bull’s gaze was downright _hungry_ , mirroring Isabela in a slightly sharper way.  “See how sweet an innocent that face is?” Bull said.  “Lies.  It’s a carefully crafted disguise.”  He finished his wine, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  The edge left his voice for a moment.  “It okay if I tell her?”

The simple act of him checking in on her shouldn’t have been hot. But it was, because her being comfortable with everything _mattered_ to him.  And that… sweet Maker that was nice.  All Morgan could do was nod.

“Don’t worry about being rough with her. She _likes_ it.”  He sounded so damn smug and satisfied, the rumble in his voice doing terrible things to Morgan’s insides.  “Grabbing, restraining, spanking.  Just nothing sudden and sharp on her back.”  Him remembering her hard limits shouldn’t be so damn endearing.

“It _is_ always the sweet, innocent looking ones, isn’t it?” Isabela said. 

“Usually,” Bull agreed.

“Pet?” Morgan looked up at Isabela.  “Is there anything you don’t want me to do with him?  People can like sharing and still not want to share _everything_.”

Instantly, all Morgan could imagine was Isabela and Bull in a tangled mess of sweaty limbs, all hungry mouths and searching hands. Face now positively crimson, she finished her wine in three long gulps.  “As long as I’m involved, no, nothing.”

“I don’t mind sitting back and watching if you want to put on a show,” Bull said. “We haven’t tried it, but I think she might enjoy that.  We’ll have to wait and see.” 

Morgan was really regretting the alcohol at this point. Her thighs were pressed tightly together, just the _talk_ of hypothetical acts was flustering her.  But she knew communication beforehand was _important_.  The idea of actually doing this thrilled her, even if the excitement had her wound so tightly that talking seemed a nearly impossible concept.  But she managed, _somehow_.  “I’d be willing to try,” she murmured.

“Well, I’m very interested in the both of you, so we can try both, I expect.” Isabela stood from the chair like a cat rising from a perch, long legs pushing her back up.  Maker, Morgan liked tall women.  And men, and…  “Should we meet here again?”  A few more moments of discussion laid out plans for the next night, and Morgan eventually left in a haze, color lingering in her cheeks even after she’d had a cool bath and gone to bed.

 

000

 

Morgan spent most of the next day with her mother, setting up a place for her to paint. The best room for that turned out to be in the mage tower, which Rebka was more than happy about.  Like her daughter, she was fascinated by magic, and when Dagna finally brought her head up from her research, Morgan was certain that the two would get along famously.  Nefret met the Little Chief only briefly, the older cat sending the younger animal scurrying.  Nefret liked people plenty, but had never been very keen on other cats.

Their conversation was made up of mostly glossed over versions of events, Morgan leaving out all the killing parts—except for demons, but even those were downplayed—and focusing on the results of all their efforts. Bit by bit, Rebka pried the more painful parts from Morgan, and eventually, Morgan was holding a flame in her palm, showing her mother how she could make it dance and flicker.  Just as she had hoped, Rebka accepted the strange new being as her daughter, telling her that she now had no excuse to leave the candles lit before going to bed.  Morgan had laughed, and then cried. 

She was glad her mother was safe.

 

000

 

Later, when her mother had retired for an afternoon nap, Morgan contented herself with wandering the grounds with Hinter. She was very good at going unnoticed when she wanted to, so listening to gossip was fairly easy.  The newest topic seemed to be Isabela.  The talk was innocent enough at first, filled with mostly curiosity and rumor as to her actual identity.  There were, of course, ‘appreciative’ conversations about her looks.  But as the day progressed, she started picking up other things.

Isabela apparently had a ‘reputation’ similar to Bull’s. How people knew that so far from the Free Marches was a bit strange.  Granted, her love of sex hadn’t exactly been shied away from in Varric’s writing.  And because she was a woman, her lengthy list of sexual conquests was viewed as a _bad_ thing.  Something about locks and keys and a bunch of nugshit.  Even if she only really knew _of_ the woman, Morgan still found herself resisting the urge to tear into those she heard laughing about how the pirate would sleep with anything with a pulse.

Then they brought Bull into it, painting him as the dumb, brutish thug that he played so well. She felt her eyelid start twitching as they talked about how easy it would be for Isabela to wrap a man ‘ _like that_ ’ around her finger easily.  Then they started talking about ‘big, dumb, ox-men’ and she felt her jaw go so tight that one of her molars felt ready to crack.  So she came up to the group of men, acting as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping and challenged them to a match in the training ring.  To her immense joy, they didn’t recognize her, and didn’t seem willing to listen to anyone that tried to enlighten them.

So Morgan spent the rest of the afternoon drawing a crowd in the training yard as she beat one man after another, waiting until they were all snarling and spitting mad before she let one of the Inquisition shoulders inform them of who they were insulting. She had grinned brightly at the looks of absolute horror and fear on their faces.  Then, as she left the ring, she casually pulled off her gloves, letting the Mark glittering brightly in the fading light.  As the rest of the more intelligent onlookers laughed, she turned on her heel and went back to the castle, intent on a hot bath and a snack.

 

000

 

At the appointed time, Morgan drifted into the tavern, most of the more boisterous patrons having already drunk themselves into a more sedate mood, or having gone off to sleep or celebrate whatever they were celebrating elsewhere. Morgan drifted up the stairs, finding the third floor abandoned.  She had only just started moving in the general direction of Bull’s door, when a lithe brown arm circled her waist, drawing her against a soft chest and then into a slightly shadowed corner.

Morgan’s heart jumped into her throat, and then a warm pair of lips were ghosting her neck, shivers racing down her spine and prickling the fine hairs on her arm. Isabela smelled of freshly oiled leather, the light armor she wore on her arm creaking softly as it drew Morgan even closer.  Her teeth grazed Morgan’s skin then, and she felt the dwarf shiver against her, a restrained little breath slipping past her lips.  The hitch in her breathing when she nibbled the edge of the missing left earlobe was also impossible to miss.

“Your man is watching, pet.” Isabela’s other hand lifted, gently moving Morgan’s head by her chin.  Opening eyes that she hadn’t been aware of closing, Morgan looked across the open stairwell to the shadowed railing on the other side.  It was dark enough that she could only _just_ make out Bull’s silhouette leaning back against the wall.  If she squinted, she could imagine that he was smiling.  “Why don’t we give him a little bit of a show, hmm?”  Her lips skimmed the shell of Morgan’s ear.  “Let me know if you don’t like anything, alright?”

Fuck people who said that ‘communicating _during_ ruined the mood’.  Being checked in with, to have a partner insist on making sure that she was okay with everything was _amazing_.  Being able to feel _safe_ with a person felt amazing.  Morgan spun in Isabela’s hold, using what boldness she could muster to put a hand at the back of the taller woman’s neck and draw her down into a kiss. 

Humming in pleased surprise against Morgan’s lips, Isabela turned them to present a slightly better angle. Quick as a snake, Morgan’s tongue darted out, probing the seam of her lips.  The moment she did, Isabela took control of the kiss, fingers sliding into Morgan’s hair and curling into a fist.  She swallowed the gasp as she tugged lightly, Morgan arching into her hold.  Morgan had forgotten just how different kissing a woman was.  And Isabela’s wide, full mouth seemed _made_ for kissing.  She was more than a little breathless when Isabela pulled away, grinning like a fox and licking her lips. 

A sharp tug on her hair forced Morgan’s head to the side, baring her neck. A moment later Isabela bit down; not hard, but with just enough pinch and make Morgan press her lips together against a quiet groan.  Maker, her smalls would be soaked before Bull even got _near_ her.  She was dimly aware of being maneuvered, her feet suddenly clumsy.  Then she was being pressed up against the wall, and a strong thigh pressed between her legs.  The pressure sent a surge of heat down her spine.

The pale neck tasted clean, Isabela’s tongue dancing over the uneven, but smooth texture of the burn scar there. Scars were hit-and-miss; some were sensitive in a good way, some pulled the skin too tight for direct attention, and others had no feeling left at all.  Morgan’s was a bit of latter, but the skin around the hand-shaped mark seemed to make up for it.  She was good at keeping quiet, but each little gasp and flutter of breath was delicious; Isabela could almost have spent all night like this, just teasing those perfect little sounds out of the other woman.

Almost.

Her fingers hooked pointedly in the front of Morgan’s belt, and she turned her head to smirk at the shadow that was the Iron Bull. But she found the other side of the balcony empty.  Her smile faltered, eyes flicking around the third floor.  Then a huge shape detached from the shadows beside them, making her heart leap briefly into her throat.  How did a man _that_ big move _that_ quietly?  He’d noticed her surprise too, the hungry look that lingered on the both of them shifting to a self-satisfied smirk.

“Some people are going to be headed up here in a minute,” he said softly, and Morgan had never felt more immobilized by a mere look. “We should move.”

“Hm, you’re probably right,” Isabela murmured, recovering her grin. “It wouldn’t do to have them see their _beloved_ Inquisitor like this, would it?”  She felt Morgan shiver, and her grin widened.  Drawing away, she jerked her head in the direction of the door to Bull’s room.  “Go on, pet,” she murmured, giving Morgan a swat on the behind as she turned. 

The muffled squeak and quick blush was too much to resist. Bull caught her up in his arms and pinned her to the wall a second time, tongue invading her mouth the moment their lips touched.  The massive difference in size was really something to behold, and Isabela took a moment to admire it, heat stirring in the pit of her stomach.  The both of them were so very beautiful in such very different ways.  He was all hard angles and muscle, and Morgan was made of soft curves.

When Bull let Morgan down, she was breathless and lightheaded. She took one last look at the other two, trembling slightly under their hungry gaze.  Then he spun on her heel and walked brusquely to the door to Bull’s room.  Her thighs had always rubbed together, but now the friction was maddening.  She heard footsteps following her, but didn’t look back.  Entering the room, she didn’t turn around until she heard the door lock behind.  She turned in time to see Isabela push Bull up against the door with a thump, rising up on her toes and dragging Bull down to her mouth.

Half expecting to feel a pang of jealousy, Morgan found herself instead enraptured by the way Isabela’s dark brown skin contrasted with the silver-slashed gray of Bull’s. It was similar to how pale her own freckled skin looked when she laid against him, and it was breathtaking.  Bull’s arm circled Isabela’s waist, and Morgan found herself drifting forward, hands sliding along the lines of the dagger harness, plucking deftly at the buckles.  The weapons clattered to the floor, and then she was peeled out of her long blue coat.

Isabela found that it was her turn to feel a bit dazed when the kiss broke, blinking up at an incredibly smug qunari. She was quite certain that _none_ of the qunari in Kirkwall had been so expressive.  Holding his gaze, she reached up and undid the buckle of his harness.  Bull’s eye slid from her to Morgan watching over Isabela’s shoulder, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.  Hazel-green eyes followed the woman’s dark hand across his chest. As Bull shucked his harness and rolled his shoulders, Isabela turned on Morgan again, pushing her across the floor until she hit the bed.  Bull felt his cock twitch as the pirate pushed Morgan down, leaping—light as a cat—up to straddle the smaller woman’s waist.  He kept watching as he knelt to remove his brace, and then kick off his boots.  By the time he reached the bed, Isabela had Morgan’s shirt hiked up under her arms and her stay half unlaced.  Morgan’s breath was already coming fast and hard, her hands splaying out on the powerful thighs spread over her hips.

Crouching on the opposite edge of the bed, Bull’s hand slid down Morgan’s chest and into her stay. His fingers found one hard nipple and pinched.  It was so sudden and sharp that she didn’t have time to muffle her response, the cry tapering into a reedy moan as her chest arched up.  Isabela’s grin was predatory and full of teeth.  With Bull’s help, she stripped Morgan naked to the waist, hopping off the bed to work at her breeches while Bull dragged Morgan up into a sitting positon.  His hand in her hair craned her head back so that his mouth could cover hers.

Strong hands lifted her hips and yanked breeches and smalls down. Morgan felt her boots come off and heard them thump somewhere behind Isabela.  Cool air prickled her skin, and she felt the phantom heat of a hungry stare.  The same nimble fingers traced the tattoos down her chest, brushing scars down her belly.  Isabela skirted around the dark nest of curls even as she spread Morgan’s legs and knelt between them, hearing the dwarf whimper into the qunari’s mouth.

The lace tattoo on her left thigh was a work of art, fine black lines looping up and down and across, falling in tiers from a plain black band. Isabela flexed her hands on the soft thighs, kissing up from the inside of Morgan’s knee.  She found the fine straight scars clustered there, and paused a moment to pay them special attention.  She knew those marks, but didn’t say a word.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Bull had both massive hands on Morgan’s chest, her large, pillowy breasts just big enough to fill them.  Morgan’s small pale nipples were caught between his fingers, her face contorted in agonized pleasure.

Sliding a hand around and up her back, it took Isabela a concentrated effort of will not to react to the heavy scarring her fingers encountered. She hid it by dragging her nails along the skin.  Softly, at first, adding a little sigh to the strangled noise that the attention on her breasts was eliciting.  Then, more sharply, making Morgan squirm, trying to lean into both sensations at once.  Bull moved one hand and Isabela replaced it with her own, nosing the dwarf’s outer lips.  Again, the first pinch was gentle, then harder when she got a positive response. 

When Isabela’s bright pink tongue darted out from between her dark lips, dragging slowly over Morgan and making her arch back into him, mouth falling open, Bull felt a growl rumble up through his chest. Isabela’s eyes flicked up for a moment, but Morgan keened, one of her hands trying to reach for his belt while her eyes fell shut.  Climbing fully onto the bed, Bull put her shoulders in his lap, Isabela following her up the bed, tongue still just barely tasting her overflowing arousal.  Morgan felt his clothed erection bump her cheek, and she turned to nuzzle against it, mouthing it through the cloth as her fingers worked blindly at his buckle.

Bull’s attention kept shifting, going between the woman knelt between Morgan’s thighs, and Morgan’s hands working urgently to free his cock as her breath stuttered and sweat began to gather along her hairline. There was a shift between her legs and she cried out, the responsive jerk of her hand freeing him completely.  Isabela drew her mouth back, curling the two fingers she’d slid inside, letting out a low, drawn out whistle.  Bull’s cock was magnificent, and combined with the taste and scent of Morgan’s sex, it was making her feel _very_ impatient.

When her hand slowed, thumb brushing around Morgan’s clit, Morgan whined, trying to shift her hips for direct contact. Isabela stopped completely.  “Be a good pet and take care of Bull, hm?” she purred.  “You’ve helped me get him all worked up and he deserves a bit of relief.”  Then she drew her hands away completely, kissing all around—but never touching directly—Morgan’s sex.  “Get on your hands and knees and show me if that fabled silver tongue of yours has other uses, Inquisitor.”

Morgan’s cunt clenched, and a plaintive whine left her. But she did as she was told, rolling onto her stomaching and drawing the flat of her tongue along Bull from root to tip.  She squeaked once when Isabela yanked her fully onto her knees, ass in the air.  As she took the head of Bull’s cock in her mouth, and his hand sank into her hair with a growl, Morgan felt Isabela’s warm hands splay over her ass, spreading her open.  Her whimper was muffled as Bull pushed her head down further.  Maker, she was being spread open by a _stranger_ , and it felt amazing, the anticipation of Isabela’s next move making her tremble.

Stepping back, Isabela kept her eyes on the pair as she stripped out of her clothes, tossing them in careless piles on the floor. Shen she leaned back in, fitting her naked thighs against the back of Morgan’s own.  Morgan sighed, humming around Bull’s cock as she took him deeper with each stroke.  “Mmm, you’re good at that, pet,” Isabela praised, leaning forward and slightly to the side to watch, her breasts brushing Morgan’s back.  “Almost a pity I don’t have one so I could fuck you while you do that…”  She hummed at the thought, feeling the smaller woman quake.  “Oh?  You like that idea?  Well…”

Making sure to drag her breasts down the scarred back, Isabela kissed down the line of Morgan’s spine, tasting the salt of gathering sweat. “I might not have my toys with me, but I _can_ reward you.”  Kneeling on her clothes, she spun her tongue briefly over the pucker of Morgan’s ass, giggling at the strangled noise and the groan that it elicited from Bull.  Dipping her fingers into the slick, Isabela pushed them upwards, finding the stiff little bundle of nerves while her other hand delved two fingers back in.  Instantly, Morgan clenched around the digits, the nails of one hand raking over Bull’s still clothed thigh.

Humming with approval, he leaned back, bracing his hands on the bed to getting a better view of Morgan. She had both hands on him now, one cupping and rolling his balls, and the other pumping what she didn’t have in her mouth.  Every few strokes, she would take him as deep as she was able, throat twitching and squeezing around him.  It seemed like Isabela had found a rhythm, as the quiet sounds muffled against him were coming more frequently.  Isabela’s golden eyes met his, her pupils blown wide and mouth smiling.

Adjusting her hands, Isabela leaned down, kissing across Morgan’s shoulders. Smaller partners made quite a few things a lot easier, and more fun.  The soft fluff of her dark hair tickled, as did the feather light touches of her mouth.  But the skin of her back that wasn’t scar tissue had always been sensitive.  The added gentle stimulation, coupled with the hand between her legs, the cock in her mouth, and the occasional pinch at her nipple, had Morgan completely drowning in conflicting sensations.  Far faster than she’d expected, she felt her body starting to clench, heat spreading out into her limbs, and her toes curling.

“Such a good pet,” Isabela purred in her ear, tracing the shell with her tongue. Her dancing eyes lifted to Bull.  “Shall I reward her?”  Her touches slowed, interrupting the rhythm that had been slowly but surely pushing Morgan towards release.  She whined and squirmed, but Bull just pushed her down on his cock again, paying careful attention to the way she moved, watching for any sign of real discomfort.

Then he pulled her off, giving Isabela enough warning to draw her hands away as he flipped Morgan onto her back, thumb hooking in her jaw and keeping her mouth open. Reaching down, he caught one of the already abused nipples and twisted, the same moment that Isabela’s fingers returned.  Unable to close her mouth to muffle her noise, Morgan cried out, hands fisting the blankets under her and her hips jerking upwards.  When she came apart, it happened slowly, everything else going fuzzy at the edges as her back arched sharply.  The pulsing heat mixed with the sudden bite to her inner thigh and the sharp pinch to her nipple, and her strangled groan tapered off into a breathy whimper.

When she relaxed, dropping back to the bed, Isabela crawled up, dragging the gentle flat of her tongue over Morgan’s abused and reddened nipples, kissing up her collar bone and neck. “Good girl,” she praised, and Morgan turned her head for a loose, sloppy kiss.  Then Isabela moved past her, making sure that she was watching before she grabbed Bull’s cock by the base, angling it to take the head into her mouth.  One large gray hand slid up her arm, curling around the back of her neck.  Taking him a bit deeper, she guided his hand further up, slipping it into her hair.

The curl pattern wasn’t as tight as his own, but the texture was pleasantly familiar. He tugged—gently—and she hummed her approval around him.  He let his head drop back slightly and exhaled through his nose.  He felt Morgan squirming slightly, still pinned under Isabela.  She worked her way down just enough, catching one brown nipple between her lips.  When she grazed it lightly with her tongue, she felt Isabela’s stomach muscles jump.  Encouraged, Morgan did it again, one arm slipping around her waist.  Her skin was warm and soft, marked here and there with scars.  And she smelled… Maker, women smelled nice.

A happy noise came up from somewhere between Isabela’s breasts, and Isabela sighed through her nose. She came off of Bull with a wet pop, pushing up on her arms as his hand left her hair.  Pouting slightly, Morgan skimmed her hands up the flare of Isabela’s hips.  “Having fun?” the pirate teased, and Morgan found herself smiling back.  Isabela was making to so easy, just diving in and _enjoying_.  It made it easier to push away the constant thoughts and avoid the usual pitfalls of overthinking.

“Yes, and you interrupted,” Morgan said, coming up on her elbow and catching a nipple gently between her teeth. Isabela was taken off guard just long enough for Morgan to push her own hips upwards and roll them both.  Wearing a blushing smirk, Morgan settled her hips over Isabela’s stomach, putting them at eye level.  “It’s very rude,” she murmured into Isabela’s neck, nibbling and kissing along her shoulder.

Humming, Isabela dragged her nails down Morgan’s back, making her arch and curl her hands into fists. She felt Bull’s weight leave the bed, and heard a drawer being pulled open.  But she was busy sucking a mark into the crook of Isabela’s neck, and only really started paying attention when she felt the heat of Bull’s naked thighs brush against her own.  Even knowing she wasn’t worked up enough, she pushed her hips back, feeling the weight of his cock on her backside.  One huge hand braced on her hip, and she felt the familiar shiver of anticipation roll through her.  Beneath her, Isabela stretched like a cat, practically purring as Morgan alternated between rapid flicking of her tongue, and little sharp nips.

Morgan’s head jerked up with a cry as Bull pushed two oiled fingers slowly inside, his hand on her waist tightening to hold her in place. Isabela’s eyes opened and a vulpine grin spread across her face.  Bull’s hand flexed and squeezed, his fingers beginning a slow, stretching rhythm.  “I want you to show Isabela just how well you can take me, Morgan,” he growled.  The words shooting down her spine. Whimpering, she pressed back against him.

Isabela dug her nails into Morgan’s shoulders, leaving raised red welts down her arms. The smaller woman shuddered, fighting a losing battle to maintain her focus.  “I’ll admit to a great deal of curiosity about _that_ feat, pet,” she said, reaching down to ghost the pad of her finger over Morgan’s clit.  “Just how much of that cock can you really take, Inquisitor?”  Her fingers split and spread, cupping Morgan around Bull’s flexing fingers. 

Face flushed and hair tousled, Morgan managed to lift her head and grin. She leaned up, Bull’s fingers following and starting to work in a third.  For a moment, her eyes fluttered closed, her bottom lip catching between her teeth.  Then they opened again, full of fire.  “Every fucking inch,” she heard herself growl. 

“Hm, awfully _big_ talk,” Isabela shot back.

Morgan blinked, and then her eyes narrowed. “Was that a pun?”

Eyes glimmering, Isabela shrugged, plucking at Morgan’s clit. “Maaaybe.”

It seemed like Morgan wasn’t going to regain control of her breathing any time soon. “Fuck!” was all she managed to get out, her head dropping onto Isabela’s chest, hands curling into tight fists.

Bull’s hand stroked her back, warm and gentle over the rising welts. They were deep enough to scab; the skin only _just_ broken, and he knew she’d feel them in the morning.  He couldn’t help but smile, also knowing that she’d use them as a reminder to ground herself whenever she had to deal with official business or anything emotionally taxing.  He’d have to ask her if he should grow out his nails just a bit, letting them take on their natural claw-like shape.  With a third finger finally inside, he gave her a moment to adjust, Isabela’s own fingers unrelenting.  He took a moment for himself then, just watching. 

He took in the slope of Morgan’s back, the way it tapered up to her defined shoulders and arms, dark brown beauty marks scattered all over the pale flesh. He couldn’t resist drawing one gray hand over it again.  Even as her thighs trembled, Morgan did her best to arch up into his touch, her breath puffing against Isabela’s breasts.  They were fantastic, and she found herself imagining them adorned with small gold hoops, or maybe rubies.  One of her sighs turned into a determined noise, and she latched onto the closest peak, startling a cry from the other rogue that made her tremble and clench.

“You sound so pretty, Morgan,” Isabela murmured, eyes fluttering shut and head arching back. “And you… oh, you _are_ good with that mouth.”

Pride sparked in Morgan, and she smirked, lifting her head. “I could show you what else it can do.”  She had always liked being the giver in oral sex.  So long as her partner was clean, she loved to take her time, feeling them come undone without a word.  She just hoped she wasn’t too out of practice.

Isabela actually faltered a moment, very tempted.   The way Morgan’s tongue had flicked and danced tirelessly, and—oh.  Now she was being kissed.  A desperate, sloppy sort of kiss, but again, Morgan’s mouth was soft and warm… Morgan nipped her bottom lip, rising up to meet the golden eyes.  “You’ve been so—ah!—good to me; can’t I return the favor?”

“You’re a little tied up, aren’t you, pet?” Isabela hummed, her finger plucking in earnest now, feeling the soft body shake and press against her.

“Not yet she’s not.” Bull couldn’t resist, and Morgan groaned.  Whether from the growing waves of pleasure and heat or from the fact that Bull was joking.  Both?  Fuck, she couldn’t think.  Not only was her second orgasm bearing down on her, but with each motion and touch, she was reminded that this was _very_ real, and not some dream conjured by a demon.  Her mind had gone quiet, no voices of doubt or anger, nothing but warm skin and searching hands, and the memory of how Isabela tasted. 

And Bull… Maker, _Bull_.  He was working her open so slowly, curling and flexing his fingers in some strange way that seemed to match and offset Isabela’s relentless rhythm.  Morgan felt herself sagging, dropping into the bed as her hips twitched and squirmed.  Any attempt to shift or match their movements was met by a tight grip on her waist or hip, Bull anchoring her in place.  She was aware that she was speaking; muffled curses chasing over the curves of Isabela’s collarbones.

Arching and bending her head down, Isabela caught her in a searing kiss, full of tongue and teeth. Morgan managed just one more whimper before she came undone, body clenching around Bull’s fingers and coating them with fresh wetness.  His grip was the only thing keeping her from dropping down onto Isabela, and her limbs felt like overcooked, mushy noodles.  When Isabela let her breathe, and Bull slowly pulled his hand away, Morgan sagged.  Then she turned her head as Bull returned to the bed, putting his back to the headboard.  She let him gather her boneless body into his lap, his hand stroking her hair.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured, shifting her to put her back against his chest. “But you’re going to have to take more for me, alright?”  Morgan whimpered, not really protested, but her body weak and oversensitive.  But it was so easy to just lean back, to press into Bull as Isabela crawled, cat-like, up the bed.  She nodded, giving a weak rock of her hips, bumping against his cock.

Isabela sat back on her heels, letting herself have a moment to just _admire_.  That tiny woman, encircled by the qunari’s arms and with her pale thighs spread.  Biting her bottom lip, she slid forward, tracing gentle hands over those thighs, thumbs skimming Morgan’s plump outer lips.  As her hands traveled up her torso, Morgan sighed at the warmth of them, managing to arch up just a little.  “He’s got you so well trained,” Isabela said.  Again, she found herself biting a lip, hungry golden eyes meeting Bull’s over the top of Morgan’s head.  “Show me,” she said, her already low voice dropping to a husky whisper.  Then she drew back, settling herself before them, watching.

Awareness sharpened again as Morgan felt Bull lifting her, hands under her thighs. Isabela’s warm hand circled the base of Bull’s cock, holding him steady.  It was quite a thing, to watch a man lift and move a woman like she weight nothing at all.  Morgan’s toes curled as the head pressed against her entrance, a warm hand—her eyes had fallen closed and she wasn’t sure whose—spreading her open.  She sucked in aloud breath at Bull began to lower her, feeling his muscles shift as he pressed his hips up.  It was almost too much. 

Even as relaxed as her body had become, her nerves still tingled with little aftershocks, and the slick, oiled slide of him felt as if it were lighting her on fire. Then her thighs were being kissed and bitten, Bull’s hold tightening to keep her from thrashing.  In some dim corner of her pleasure-hazed brain, she was aware that they were probably making too much noise, because she could feel her throat vibrating with soft sounds, lungs expanding against her ribcage each time she took a breath.  The same dim place also wondered if Bull’s arms were tired, lowering her so slowly, but no one voiced any complaints. 

Isabela looked up from her ideal vantage point, hands flexing on Morgan’s thighs as Bull’s cock slid in inch by agonizing inch. The young woman’s head was dropped back, mouth open and chest heaving.  The flush that colored her cheeks and ears had crept down over her breasts.  It seemed impossible that such a small body could take such a large cock, but there Morgan was, doing just that.  Smirking, Isabela leaned, drawing her tongue along Bull’s shaft and then over Morgan’s clit, making them both twitch and groan.  Bull felt his control snap, hips snapping up as he shoved Morgan the rest of the way down.

When Morgan toppled forward, Isabela shot up into a sitting position to catch her, both of them snorting out a hopeless sort of giggle. “Surprise?” Isabela offered, earning a wry chuckle from Bull.  He shifted slightly, hands stroking Morgan’s sides.

“You good…?” He trailed off, the last word sticking in his throat.  She looked so good like this.  Draped over the beautiful brown pirate, back arched.  He really liked the way she looked form behind.  Pulling her back just a little, he tilted her head up to him, stroking her cheek and meeting her eyes.  Her pupils were blown so wide that her eyes looked nearly black, but she smiled at him.

“’M good, Bull,” she mumbled. “It’s a lot, but…”  She wriggled her hips in his lap.  “But ‘s good.”

Having moved back to better take in the full view, Isabela’s had had drifted between her legs. “It’s _much_ more than just _good_ , pet,” she said.  “You’re a lucky man, Iron Bull.”  She wasn’t looking at him, too engrossed in Morgan.  He couldn’t blame her.  Even though he couldn’t see her face, he could picture it perfectly in his head.  He’d always been good at remembering faces.  Like the way Morgan’s face appeared mostly round until her jaw squared off.  Her lashes were short, but grew so thickly, a dark fan dropping down to cover her eyes and cast tiny shadows on her pink, freckled cheeks. 

His hands slid towards her hips, feeling the little dip where they met her thighs, and then the lingering softness that that circled her hips and waist. As his fingers flexed and sank against her skin, he very nearly dragged her back to bite her neck, biting back a possessive growl.  The unexpected surge of possessiveness threw him, jerking his head from the relaxed space he’d fallen it into.  Then Morgan, her mouth now otherwise occupied, reached one hand back, curving it over his where it rested on her waist.  She squeezed his hand, and her hips rocked, yanking him forcefully back into the moment.  He was there, with her, and fuck if it wasn’t beautiful to watch.

Isabela released Morgan’s mouth, then sucked in a surprised breath as the other woman’s hand drew hesitantly along her folds. When she looked, hazel-green eyes were latched onto hers, the gaze questioning.  Her already full lips were kiss-swollen, and there was also something hopeful to the expression.  “Alright,” she murmured.  “Bull, can you get up on your knees with her?”

The slightly dazed smile that Morgan gave him over her shoulder was way hotter than it should have been. Good.  She was enjoying herself.  That was… really good.  Holding her by the chest and waist, he shifted, ignoring the few moments of intense protest from his bad knee.  Morgan pulled herself eagerly along, trusting him with her weight as Isabela laid on her back.  Morgan shivered, feeling Bull shift inside her and his weight settle back against her.  And then her nose was brushing along Isabela’s thighs, faint stretch marks lacing the edges.  Morgan traced one with her tongue, putting the rogue’s thighs over her shoulders.

The first rock of Bull’s hips made her mouth only useful for gasping. She could feel his smirk in her back, in the bruises that his hold on her hips would leave.  He started slow, drawing back and thrusting forward at an aching languid pace.  Her first taste of Isabela was twisted around a low, nearly rumbling groan.  She felt a hand in her hair, smaller and more slender than she was used to.  Morgan hummed, lapping at Isabela’s entrance as she nosed her clit.  Muscles jumped in the thighs over her shoulders, and a fierce thrill of pride went through her.  As Bull started another slow push forward, she rocked her hips back, jerking sound from him.  Something about making another person feel good—with just her body and an earnest want to please—had always been incredibly gratifying.  Now she was feeling that twice over.

As she familiarized herself with the shape, taste, and feel of Isabela’s sex, she had to remember to balance her breathing. Just because Bull was moving slowly, didn’t mean that he was being gentle.  She was wet, and the drag of him was torture, so close to being too much.  Every movement was pushing her limits, trying to tear her mind away from what lay—literally—before her.  So she started a rhythm, matching the sway and flick of her tongue to Bull’s thrusts, each of them pushing her closer.  The wet, slick, and slightly tangy taste of Isabela filled her mouth, and Morgan hummed in satisfaction. 

There had been tales of the eloquent speeches and the eloquent negotiation skills of the Inquisitor. How was it that people that were so good at talking were so often very good at giving head?  Did all those lies and double meanings make the tongue more nimble?  The wonderings quickly faded from Isabela’s mind.  For all Morgan’s submissiveness before, there was none left to be found.  At least where her mouth was concerned.  The fingers of one hand dug into her thigh, the other slipping in a pair of fingers and curling them, the thrusting rhythm matching the qunari behind her.  Isabela felt each of Bull’s thrusts through Morgan, the matching rhythms causing the bed to creak and groan.  She found her hand balling into a fist around the smooth strands of Morgan’s hair, and let out an unabashed groan.

Morgan took note. The more noise Isabela made, the more Morgan repeated an action.  Or at least tried to.  Even with doing her best to match Bull’s thrusts, they were growing in power, and with her nerves already bordering on overwrought, she knew her coherency wouldn’t last long.  But she was nothing if not stubborn, and perhaps determined.  Grasping Isabela with both hands, she focused on her clit in earnest.  Hesitantly at first, and listening for any other direction; each woman was different after all.  When she started fucking Isabela with her tongue, both of the rogue’s hands were in her hair.  When her thumb started circling her clit at the same time, her fluttering cry made Morgan’s own body clench.

Bull prided himself on being attentive to his partners, on being able to read them. To know when they were enjoying themselves, when they were uncertain, or when they were uncomfortable.  Two people had always been a bit harder.  Not that he couldn’t, but that usually took a few times together to nail down.  Thankfully, Morgan seemed to have some skill in that area as well, reacting to Isabela with what _sounded_ like excellent intuition.  He could tell she was torn, her muffled breathing hard and rapid, and her hips trying to match his rising pace.

When was the last time a woman had looked so good devouring another? His brain was suddenly devoid of any other examples.  And watching Isabela slowly come undone by _Morgan_ … Fuck, he wanted to call her ‘his’ Morgan.  His perfect little pet, so happy to listen to any order he gave, to push back against him, cunt practically choking on his girth.  He reached out and stroked her back, his murmured praise lost on loud cry from Isabela.  Morgan relaxed in his hold, no longer moving with him and focusing on the pleasure of the woman in front of her.

His gaze followed the arrow up her spine to where her head moved between Isabela’s thighs, then further to where the Rivani was arching her back and pinching a nipple with the hand not fisted in Morgan’s hair. Damn, she was pretty when she came.  Where Morgan went silent and gasped desperately for air, Isabela screamed, the sound stuttered by the full-body shiver that went through her. 

Bull started moving in earnest then, hips slamming into Morgan’s. Isabela had no sooner gone silent than Morgan was crying out with each thrust, pulling her hands quickly away as heat glowed briefly in her palm.  Then it seemed that the candles burned brighter, the fire in the hearth crackling back to life from embers.  Isabela slid from under her fought into a sitting position beside them.  Isabela put a hand under Morgan, finding her clit while the other hand dragged Bull down for a kiss.

Morgan thrashed, the sensitivity bordering on pain. But she was getting close, and she swallowed down the watchword, tasting wood smoke in the back of her mouth and praying she didn’t scorch the bedding.  She felt her body rolling up to the peak, hovering there.  For a desperate moment she thought that her body wouldn’t let her, that she was too sensitive to go again.  Then she was falling, her cry choked into a gasp and Bull’s nails suddenly biting into the skin of her hip, cut short but still sharp enough to draw blood.  She could _feel_ him coming inside her, leaking down her thighs, and whimpered. 

Bull broke away from Isabela with a bite to her bottom lip, feeling her drop to the bed beside him. Morgan sighed as he eased out of her, kissing her back and shoulders, breath hot as it puffed over the skin.  Morgan felt her eyes close, body floating somewhere warm and trembling.  She felt herself being lifted, and when she opened her eyes, she was sprawled out over Bull’s chest, with him lying next to Isabela.  The rogue had shamelessly laid her head on his shoulder, and was grinning down at Morgan.

They laid there in silence, each of them more than a bit breathless. Bull was the next one to smile, his eye falling close and horns scraping the headboard.  Morgan giggled.  “Fuck,” she mumbled.  “That was…”  She dissolved into another breathy giggle, and kissed Bull’s chest. “Fuck.”  Briefly, she was aware of how empty her mind was, but passed over the thought, not wanting to jinx it. “That is one word for it, yes,” Isabela murmured.  She stretched like a cat.  “You’re _very_ good at that, pet,” she said, reaching up to tap a finger to Morgan’s lips.  She paused, biting her own lip in thought.  “I won’t be leaving for a few days.  And I would _very_ much like to have a go at ‘riding the Bull’, as they say.”  Bull snorted and Morgan giggled.  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Morgan lost the battle with her eyelids. “’S fine with me,” she said sleepily.  “Jus’ not right now.  He’s comfy.”  Bull’s laugh rumbled under her ear, but she was too far gone.  She was aware of being lowered onto the bed, and conversation humming in the background.  A blanket was draped over her, and then she heard the sound of a door opening and closing.  The blanket was pulled away, and a wet cloth drawn over her.  She woke up long enough to take the glass of water Bull put into her hands.  Then she blinked.  “Is… can I say for a bit?”  Her limbs felt heavy, and she really didn’t think that she was going to make it up the steps back to her room.

The respect for his space was unnecessary, but he still smiled. “Go to sleep,” he murmured.  His knee was a dull throb in the background, but he moved to blow out the candles and the one lamp on the desk.  He paused, turning to look at the naked woman spread over his bed.  The lightness in his chest was back, so bright and full that something in him tightened.  The smile faltered, but her breathing was already easy and relaxed; she was asleep.  Throwing another log into the fire, he crawled under the blanket beside her.  She woke enough to roll onto her other side and put her back to his chest.  Bull hesitated for a moment, then draped his arm over her and closed his own eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you can sleep with Isabela both as the Hero of Ferelden and as Hawke, and someone pointed out that she might try to score with the Inquisitor as well. The idea stuck in my head and wouldn't leave me alone, so you got this. There's going to be a lot more plot coming up soon, and shit is going to hit the proverbial fan, so, yeah. Enjoy this happy stuff!


	27. Tough Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood play! Sorta? I headcannon dragon blood as a definite drug, with weird effects. Anyways, people go dragon hunting and realize things. Some realizations hurt.

 

Tough Love:

Morgan came awake when the bed beside her shifted violently. She was used to Hinter moving and adjusting, but this was different.  Her eyes snapped open, hand reaching for a dagger that wasn’t there.  Bull’s room.  And Bull was…  He was sitting upright, the blankets twisted around his naked legs, his breath coming hard and fast.  Sitting up, she reached out slowly.  But she was on his left.  The second he perceived movement on his blind side, Bull lashed out with a wide sweep of his arm.  Morgan flattened herself to the bed to avoid the blow, swallowing her cry of surprise as her heart hammered against her ribs.

Reality of the moment slammed back in. “Morgan?  Fuck!”  Bull practically jerked away from her, locking his knee to keep from falling as he forced himself out of the bed.  Shame radiated through him, burning under his skin. 

Without a second thought, Morgan was on her feet, taking a few steps towards him, trying to catch his eye in the dark. “Bull?  Are you alright?”

No. He wasn’t al-fucking-right.  The nightmare lingered, stamped into his memory.  It was rare that his mind brought up scenarios that had never actually happened.  When it did, it was never good.  But the images still blazed behind his eyes, the faces of all the other imekari, bloody and ashen.  There was blood on his axe, _their_ blood, and he’d…  He’d almost hurt her.

 _Tal-Vashoth_.  The word played over and over in his head, sharp and accusing.  Violent, savage, unstable…

Then a small hand was weaving with his, warm and calloused. He flinched, and it started to draw away.  He tightened his hand, catching the tips of Morgan’s fingers.  Her body heat radiated against his side, her fingers curling back around his.  She shuffled closer, kissing his elbow, but not quite leaning into him.  “You’re safe,” she murmured, an echo of the words he’d once given her.  “Nothing bad is happening.”

But he could still smell the blood, the smoke of Seheron. It burned his nose and his eye.  He stopped squeezing her hand, instead searching with shaking fingers for her crooked pinky, wrapped so thickly with scar tissue even his calloused fingertips could find it.  It was a mark very uniquely Morgan.  Then his hand traveled up her arm, over the thick, ropey scar that was a mark from Redcliffe, and then the one from the blow to her shoulder.  Realized what he was doing, Morgan took his hand in hers, lifting it to circle gently around her neck. 

Bull flinched, but she kissed his hand. “It’s alright, you’re not hurting me,” she murmured.  He let her lay his hand over the burn on her neck, resting for a moment before her own fell away, her head tilted to her side, hair brushed back over her shoulder.  He still remembered that night, and realized now that her sensing the mage had just been a glimpse into what the Mark—and Morgan with it—would become.  The bright, raw skin and new-formed blisters were still pictured clearly in his mind, as well as her determination to push ahead.  This wasn’t Seheron, babies didn’t get left to die on the side of the road.

Lifting her and folding her into his arms, Bull returned them to the bed. As he crawled over her, his lips brushed hers just once, before they took over where his hand had left off, tracing each of her scars.  He used the memory of each one to block out everything else, filling his mind and mouth with nothing but Morgan.

 

000

 

Isabela stayed for three more days. Two of those nights she ended up in bed with the Iron Bull and the Inquisitor.  She left with a smile and a wave, and not without waggling her eyebrows at Varric until he threw up his hands and vacated the area at speed.  Morgan hoped she and Bull were the only ones to notice the slightly altered—but not quite limping—gait.

 

000

 

“Right in the middle?   Like she landed right in the middle of the place and decided, ‘yes! _This_ is where I shall raise my children!’?”  Morgan pinched the bridge of her nose, the starts of a headache pulsing behind her eyes.

“Apparently. And the miners were so embarrassed that they failed to send word for a week.  They also failed to see that she was nesting, and now the valley is overrun with her and the dragonlings.”  Leliana was frowning at the piece of paper in her hands, lips pursed.

“They thought she was just going to leave?”

“They don’t say it in those words exactly, but yes.” She passed a collection of papers over to Morgan, who had to bite back a groan at the sight of them.  “We could always send the army to deal with them.  Queen Anora has offered her assistance.”

Morgan didn’t look up from the reports, but shook her head. “No, we can’t risk that many people.  A High Dragon with a brood… fuck.  I wish we could just leave them be.”  She was staring at a collection of sketches, all done in charcoal.  It was called the Ferelden Frostback, which seemed silly, considering that all the reports said it breathed fire.  She was a beautiful creature, and only trying to protect her young.

“We can’t afford to lose this mine,” Leliana reminded her. “Iron is the easiest material to refine into decent weapons quickly.  As much as I’d love for all our soldiers to be armed with silverite…”  She shrugged helplessly.

“I know. I’ll take Cassandra,” Morgan said.  “And Bull.  I don’t think he’d ever forgive me if I fought a dragon without him.”

“Just as we can’t risk large numbers of our soldiers, we can’t exactly afford to lose the Herald of Andraste.” The words were soft, and Morgan felt certain that Leliana had considered laying a hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t expect it to be easy, but I won’t send anyone to do anything that I won’t do myself.” She squared her shoulders and pushed her jaw out slightly.  She was aware of the gesture—one had to know one’s own tells, after all—but didn’t really care.  She was making it clear that there would be no further debate. 

Leliana shrugged, accepting with an almost knowing smile. “As you say, Inquisitor,” she said.  She and Morgan left the office, parting ways when the spymaster headed towards Josephine’s office.  Drifting out into the bustling hall, a smile slowly spread across her face.  She remembered the first time that she had seen a real High Dragon.  It had been on the Storm Coast, just a few miles away from where she and Bull had first met.  It had been breathing crackling streams of lightning at a giant, and had been one of the most beautiful things that Morgan had ever seen. 

A giddy sort of anticipatory fear trickled down her spine, filling her limbs with a buzzing energy that made her want to break into a run. They were going to fight a dragon.  Her cheeks hurt from how wide she was grinning, and the warmth of the sun on her face once she hit the courtyard was heavenly.  Everything around her suddenly seemed brighter and sharper.  Without any conscious thought, she found herself drawn to the Herald’s rest.  It wasn’t terribly busy this early in the day, and only Cabot gave her a nod from behind the bar.

When she came to a stop in front of Bull, she was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. More than her own wonder and awe of the dragon, she was thinking of the look on Bull’s face every time one was mentioned, or the time when the one in the Western Approach had flown right over them.  She was more excited to see Bull’s reaction than the dragon itself.  He took one look at her and was half smiling already, setting down the cup he’d been drinking from. 

“We’re going to fight a dragon!” The words tumbled out before Morgan could come up with a decent preamble, too eager to see his expression.

For a moment, his smile faded completely, mouth falling open slightly. She watched his eye go wide and then a huge, toothy grin spread across his face.  He was _beaming_ , and her heart was pounding and she was so fucking _happy_!  “Seriously?!”  His voice was louder than he’d meant, but no one seemed to care.  “Where is—?  When?!”

“Hinterlands! Three days!” 

Bull slapped the table, making the dishes and candlestick jump. “Hot damn!  Boss…”  He paused, turning the full force of his smile on her again.  Her stomach dropped, anxious excitement tightening her chest.  “You’re the _best_.”  The open, raw honesty he spoke with hit like a blow, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.  “Who’s coming with us?”

“Madame Vivienne and Cassandra. It’s a fire dragon, and Madame is very good with ice magic.  Cassandra has fought dragons before.  I…”  Another tremble went through her, and she realized that her hands were shaking.  She dragged over a chair and sat down, letting out a shuddering breath.  But the smile remained.  “Bull, they thought High Dragons had died out… but reports have been flooding in.  Some are just wyverns or a pack of gurguts, but…” 

It was hard to put into words the sheer wonder she felt when it came to wild animals. The idea of being so close to something so wild and alive…  Even the phoenixes in the Western Approach had been amazing, in a creepy, trying-to-kill-you-with-fire sort of way.  Nature was amazing, and sometimes she had trouble believing that one being could just… _create_ such complex things.  Dragons were fairy tales.  Dragons were the stuff of dreams and impossible stories.  And she was going to fight one.  She was going to be within reach of a living fucking legend.

“I— _we’ve_ done so many impossible things,” she finally said, voice soft.  The only word Bull could come up with to describe her tone was ‘reverent’.  “But _dragons_ , Bull…  If there was ever a living embodiment of pure _power_ , it would be a dragon.”  Sadness passed over her face briefly.  “I wish we could communicate with them, instead of killing them.”  Then, quick as anything, she was smiling again.  “Imagine _riding_ one!”

Bull found himself pausing, actually turning her words over in his head. How had the thought never crossed his mind before?  It almost sounded like something out of one of Varric’s books, but…  He’d seen parts of dragons; bones, skin, teeth, claws, and horns.  But to be near a living, breathing one, to _ride_ one…  Something stirred in him, something ancient and instinctual, like a half-remembered song he could only catch bits of.  But it made him feel good, and just the idea of being _near_ a High Dragon made him feel achingly _alive_.

Then he looked at Morgan, with her bright eyes and hopeful smile. He realized that she’d come to him first, before any of the others, and he felt a swell of gratitude.  It was almost immediately followed by warning bells.  When was the last time someone had been this close to him?  The last time someone had known him so well?  And she didn’t just know the Iron Bull.  Whether she knew it or not, she knew Hissrad, too.  She knew _him_.  He’d let her in, like he’d been warned _not_ to do. 

Just like he’d been warned about the Chargers. Make friends, sure, but don’t let anyone in.  He’d let Krem in, and the others, too.  And now Morgan.  There was another tinge of guilt, to think that she knew him better than people he’d been fighting beside for years.  He had to be especially careful, not to go any further past the line he knew he’d crossed years ago.  The Qun still mattered, and would always be there, no matter what happened.  He had to remember that.

 

000

 

Days later, Morgan passed Varric on her way out to the stables, her pack already loaded and slung over one shoulder. Their eyes met, and both of them went red, all the way up to their ears.  Without pulling up a hood, and using several scarves, there was no way to hide all the marks that Isabela had left behind.  Even though they had begun to fade, they were still visible.  And somehow he knew, he knew just by looking at her.  He looked pointedly down and began scribbling in earnest with his quill. 

“Have fun with that dragon,” he muttered, trying very hard not to imagine what might have taken place. He failed, miserably, and his face remained a stubborn and slightly unattractive shade of mortified.

“S-sure thing!” Morgan called, already trotting towards the door.

 

000

 

“You are enjoying this _far_ too much,” Cassandra said.

“Or, _you’re_ not enjoying it enough,” Bull shot back, grinning hugely.

“There is nothing ‘fun’ about fighting dragons, Iron Bull,” she sniffed. “It is dangerous and it is almost certain that one of us will be grievously injured.” 

“You didn’t _have_ to say yes, Cassandra,” Morgan said.  “I brought you along because you know the most about dragons.  And you _have_ fought them before.  If—”

“ _Once_!  In my youth,” Cassandra said for the seventh time.  “With _help_.”

“Yes, dear, we know,” Vivienne said. “That doesn’t take away from the fact that you know more about dragons than the rest of us.  Varric has fought one before, of course.  But I don’t think our dear Inquisitor could have gotten him out here for anything.”

Cassandra snorted. “Yes.  I believe he mentioned something about singed chest hair?  Or was it his eyebrows…?”

“Any pointers, Seeker?” Bull asked, his cheer not even slightly diminished.

“Yes. Stay away from the front.  And the back.  And the legs.  And the wings.”

“So… you want us to stay away from the whole thing?”

“That’s what is safest, yes.”

Morgan could help herself. She giggled.  Gracie made a strange sort of snorting noise under her.  It was hard to make proper horse noises when most of your head was just leathery skin and skull, with no lips or nostrils to speak of.  “Like I said, you didn’t have to come.”

“Who else is going to stop you and Iron Bull from charging in without any sort of plan?”

“Whatever plan we make is just going to go to shit the second the dragon takes off,” Morgan said. Before Cassandra could start another lecture about tactics, she hurried to add, “I _do_ have a plan, or at least part of one.  Disable the wings first however we can.  Then try not to get set on fire, and aim for the underbelly.  All the reports said that the armor is a bit softer there.”  She looked to the Seeker, brows raised.

Cassandra made a grumbling noise of grudging agreement. “Yes, that _is_ technically correct.  But getting under to go after it puts you in range of the feet.  Which are heavily clawed, and—”

“Seeker, you and I can hack at it, and Ma’am can draw its fire—no pun intended, I promise—while the Boss runs in underneath, and—”

“No. Absolutely not.  Morgan is far too important to risk.  I would rather her stay out of the fighting all together.”

Morgan turned in her saddle, eyes narrowed and jaw fixed. “Not happening.”

“But you—”

“I appreciate your concern, Cassandra, I really do,” Morgan said tightly. “But I haven’t gotten this far by letting people fight my battles for me.  And I’m probably the most flame retardant out of all of you.”

“Dragon fire is _not_ the same as alchemical fire,” Cassandra said.

“I didn’t figure it was, but I didn’t say fire _proof_ , now did it?  I’m also the smallest and easiest to miss.  I can get in and cut up the belly once the wings are disabled.”  She turned back to the front.  “I’m not going to argue this anymore.  I’m helping, and unless you brought irons to clap me in again, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

For a few moments, Cassandra glared at the Inquisitor’s back, then her shoulders relaxed and she sighed. “I’d have more luck with that than my uncle ever had trying to get me to wear dresses.  Which is to say, he never succeeded.”  That startled a barking laugh out of Bull, and for the rest of that day’s ride, all Morgan could do was imagine a furious Seeker, sword and shield in hand, wearing a frilly pink gown, with a crown of flowers in her dark hair.

 

000

 

The valley was on fire.

Smoke tried to darken the sky, but the sun beamed on merrily, oblivious to the destruction going on the valley below. In the distance, Morgan could see the remains of scaffolding at the mine’s entrance, and the small village that had sprung up to house the miners.  All had been reduced to ashes, or smashed beyond repair.  The last scouting party had put the dragon at the back of the valley, and the dragonlings everywhere.  Their cries echoed, shrill imitations of the roar they had heard earlier that morning.  The crossroads had been deserted, most of the locals having taken refuge in the caves.

There was no sign of the High Dragon herself. Not yet, anyways.  Already sweating under her armor, Morgan drew her daggers, feeling the cold of the newly installed frost runes spiraling up her arms.  The magic in the Mark called to the chill, magnifying it.  Closing her eyes, Morgan let her mind drift into the feeling, the chill passing through her arms and into the rest of her, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.  When she opened her eyes and exhaled, a small puff of frosty breath plumed in the air before her.

Cassandra’s brows rose significantly. “You’ll have to explain that in more detail,” she said.  “At a later time.  Assuming we survive this.”

“We will,” Morgan said without looking back. “I’m not letting myself die until Corypheus is dead. _Really_ dead.”  She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck.  She looked at Bull.  He was smiling, axe in hand as he stared out over the valley.  He was practically vibrating with energy, and she felt something similar burning in her chest, a buzzing of power and excitement that defied words.  All her life, she had felt out of place, like she was watching the world go by through glass.

 _“This is it,”_ she found herself thinking, hands tightening on her weapons. _“All this time,_ this _is what I was waiting for. These people...”_    Maker, she was close to tears.  But also so unbelievably happy.  She wasn’t fool enough to think that the darkness of her mind was gone forever; that sort of thing never went away.  But she _belonged_ here.  Everything just _worked_ , even when everything went to shit, she still felt that she was exactly where she should be.  The peace that followed the realization was startling, and she sighed out the nervous energy.

“This is a good day,” she murmured, suddenly very aware of how wind felt on her face, tugging and stray wisps of hair.

“This is a _very_ good day!” Bull amended.

And then it started. With the dragon out of sight, they had no option but to charge in.  The dragonlings noticed them immediately, a group of three charging in, tiny, vestigial wings flapping madly.  Bull roared, and Morgan laughed, smashing a flask of ice against her chest before sliding in, slicing at legs and feeling the hot spatter of blood.  The screaming made her ears ring, but her smile didn’t fade.  She saw ice creep up the limbs that slashed at her, trying to grab hold.  They died quickly, one exploding into chunks of frozen meat and bone.

The cries called their siblings, something bigger rumbling in the distance. Again they fought the smaller creatures, biding their time, saving their energy.  It felt like they took on hundreds of the things, the bodies piling up and adding to the already heavy, greasy stink of smoke.  Some fled, and would have to be dealt with later.  They all knew what the distressed cries would bring, and it didn’t take very long.

The distant roar shook the ground, and when the dragon flew over them, it felt as if each beat of her wings sucked the air from the ground. For a moment, Morgan thought her encrusted in gold.  Then she landed, and it became the sheen of healthy scales, the dragon full of life and _anger_.  Green patterned among the yellow, the legs and underbelly a yellowish-brown.  She roared, and Morgan’s ears rang, body trembling.  But the ache in her cheeks told her that she was still smiling, and her whoop of joy mingled with Bull’s answering cry.

“The wings!”

There was a gurgling, and a glow crept up the beast’s neck, brighter and brighter, until… Morgan broke the flask against her chest, feeling heat spread across her as she dove to the side.  She saw Cassandra’s shield raised, Vivienne behind her and glittering with frost.  Fear pounded in; they hadn’t had time to duck for her cover like her and Bull.  Steam plumed around them as the fire hit, hiding them from view.  There was no time to waste.  Still wreathed in her own flames, Morgan leaped in, feet pounding the dirt and the Mark singing.  This creature was magic made flesh, pure and wild and _beautiful_.

Even drawn in, the wings were out of her reach. Morgan was scanning the nearby rock formations for a high enough ledge, when Bull came up beside her, weaving his hands together for a step.  Without missing a beat, Morgan stepped into the makeshift stirrup, and felt herself launched.  Then she was on the wing.  Literally _on_ the wing.  There was no time to marvel at the texture of the hide, and how really thin and transparent it looked, veins standing out in the webbing.  On her knees, she dug in the blades, calling on the magic she could still feel from Vivienne.  Frost exploded, unchecked and uncontrolled, chilling her instantly to the bone.

Bull was yelling, words this time. Somehow, they carried to her through the thick of battle, a moment before she heard the roaring of another blast of fire.  “Taardsidath-an Halsaam!”  It could have been Qunlat, or gibberish for all she knew.

The wing heaved beneath her, stretching out as the dragon roared in pain. But a puncture wasn’t enough; letting go now wasn’t an option.  Kicking her legs out from under her until her belly hit the membrane, Morgan _pulled_.  Her own weight and the upward tilt of the wings drug her back, blood spraying as the membrane was shredded.  Then her feet hit open air.  The moment slowed, and she saw in perfect, drawn out detail the very instant when her daggers reached the edge of the membrane.  And then she was weightless, falling. 

Then weight crashed into her, a slender arm circling her waist. She felt the world twist and warp around them, the Anchor sending a stream of energy up her arm as Vivienne warped them safely back to the ground.  She finally got a look at what she’d done.  Ice crystals were already melting with the heat of the dragon’s body.  She roared again, spreading her wings.  Only one section of membrane had been damaged on the right, but then Morgan heard Bull’s familiar roar, and the other wing jerked down with a sickening crack.  Then it was hanging at an angle, awkward and wrong.

The dragon’s tail lashed, and Morgan found herself grabbing hold of Vivienne again, her own eyes fixed on a point beyond the creature. She’d only done a Fade Step once, but she didn’t try to remember the first time.  For a moment, all she could smell was the subtle perfume of the mage beside her, and then they were tumbling down among charred bushes, on the other side of the dragon.  Vivienne looked actually surprised.  Then she smiled, and dropped her staff.

“Try not to get stepped on, my dear,” she said. Then she was lunging in, a blade of gleaming light materializing in her hand.  Gashes opened on the flailing dragon’s flanks, and Bull roared something Morgan couldn’t hear.  The animal spun again, and the roar went silent, as fast as an arrow leaving a bow.  His silence was deafening.  Morgan saw the beast’s head turn, lifting as it pointed its snout down.  Cassandra shouted in alarm.  It moved, and Morgan saw Bull struggling to right himself, axe cast several yards out of reach.

_No._

The Fade Step happened without a thought, Morgan blinking into existence between Bull and the dragon. Heat beat against her, and she smashed a flask of fire over her chest, fully ready to take a burst of flame.  It bellowed at her instead, leathery lips pulling back in a full-on snarl.  Morgan could feel Bull moving behind her, struggling to his feet with an arm around his ribs.  Whatever injuries she might have, Morgan didn’t feel, adrenaline singing in her veins and fury in her heart.  The head jerked back for a moment, Cassandra and Vivienne still hacking at its flanks.  Morgan took the moment to glance behind her.  Bull had his axe again, and was smiling at her. 

So in she went. She barely had to crouch to duck between the animal’s front legs, the underbelly stretching out before her.  Bull roared again, and she followed the animal as his blow staggered it.  Vivienne and Cassandra’s feet were visible, darting and dancing, light glittering as the mage’s spectral blade flashed and swung.  Morgan kept going until she was past the ribcage, where the animal’s body swelled out slightly before narrowing at the hips. 

The moment Morgan stabbed upwards, pressing both daggers in to the hilt, she wished she’d held her breath. Whatever she’d hit bled heavily, splattering her in a thick torrent.  It splashed her face in a hot gout, filling her nose mouth and nose.  It _burned_.  Morgan spat and coughed, but the heat was already working its way down her throat, filling her entire body with heat.  Mostly blind, she blinked rapidly, ducking away.  She could see just enough to cut at the back of the beast’s ankle, hacking with both daggers until something snapped.  She made it out from under the dragon just before its weight came down on its back legs, body curling around the new, debilitating injury.

The blood didn’t cool, even away from the staggering amount of body heat the animal was putting off. She yanked a handkerchief from her belt and wiped at her eyes before tossing the rag aside, tongue swiping across her lips.  The blood was full of fire and metal, and then Morgan remembered that Reavers drank the blood of dragons to maintain their abilities.  Some dim memory of Cassandra warning about how the blood was powerful magic, and could have dangerous consequences, sounded in the back of her head.

But the words faded in a rush of heat and violent pleasure. The aches of the battle burned now, but the pain didn’t hamper her.  She dove back in, feet seeming to fly across the ground.  Her arms shook with each impact of her daggers, muscles reacting faster and stronger than she was used to.  In a single moment of clarity, she knew how dangerous this was, how easy it would be to lose herself to this wonderful feeling of power.  Nothing could stop her, and she knew that fact with such certainty.  Every bit of her depression was burned away, self-doubt reduced to cinders.  In that moment, Morgan had never been more sure of anything.  They could win.

Bull’s axe caught the dragon in the side of the jaw, the shock of the impact reverberating up his arms and into his chest. The great horned head crashed into the ground, and then Morgan was at his side, bloody and glorious.  He smiled at her, and the smile she returned was full of teeth, eyes alight.  He saw her go in, frost crawling up her gauntlets as her daggers bit in and pulled across the dragon’s throat.  They were both drenched in the spray of blood this time, and Bull grabbed her by the belt to yank her back.  The beast was just as dangerous dying as it was alive.  They all backed up, the flailing throwing up dust and debris.

The beast turned on them, the fire visible through the slash in its throat as it tried for one last breath. A bolt of ice shot over their shoulders, directly into the beast’s opening maw.  It choked, made a disproportionately hilarious gurgling noise, and dropped.

“MORGAN RAVYN CADASH!!”

Whipping around, Morgan saw _Asala_ thundering down the valley, and wondered if the dragon blood was making her hallucinate.  She scrubbed at her eyes and looked again.  Asala was a good deal closer and still moving.  Well, shit.  But she couldn’t find it in herself to feel regret or worry.  Her body still sang with the fight, nose full of blood and smoke and… Bull.  He was standing beside her, breathing hard and staring.  His eye moved between her and the dragon, hands tight around his bloody axe.  The look he was pinning her with was very, _very_ familiar.  Then his axe was on the ground and his hands were on her waist, hauling her up as his mouth crashed onto hers.

Morgan’s spiked gauntlets raked over his back before locking on his shoulders. She bit his bottom lip, drinking in his growl and both of them oblivious to Cassandra’s noise of startled confusion.  Bull tasted of dragon’s blood, and a fresh wave of heat and power washed through her, translating straight to arousal and coiling tight in her core.  Bull growled again, tightening his hold to resist the urge to start stripping her and to just fuck her up against the dragon’s corpse.  Asala had reached them, and was shouting something.  But Morgan was still kissing him, so he ignored her.  It took Vivienne clearing her throat to break them apart, color creeping across both their faces.

“What the _fuck_ were you _thinking_?!” Asala began immediately.  She was visibly out of breath, and judging from the tension in her jaw, her injuries were still paining her.

Trying to swallow only renewed the taste of blood in Morgan’s mouth, and biting the inside of her cheek did nothing to quell the heat between her legs. She didn’t even care that Cassandra was gaping at them, red-faced and silent.  “You’re _hurt_ ,” Morgan pointed out hotly.  “Who in the world let you out of the gates?”

“Some kid that found the idea of pissing off a very large Vashoth exceptionally intimidating.  Don’t try to make this about me.”  Her blind face turned towards Bull.  “And _you_!  You’re supposed to protect her!  What were you thinking?!”  Then she was pushing past them, one hand reaching out.  She didn’t stumble once, and laid her hand on the dragon’s side.  “Why didn’t you bring _me_?”

Morgan couldn’t help it. She started laughing, the sound loud and cackling.  “You’re upset because I didn’t invite you _dragon hunting_?” she giggled.

“Yes!” Asala cried indignantly, turning and putting her hands on her hips.

“Uuuh… You dealt the killing blow?” Morgan offered, shrugging her shoulders.

Asala waved a hand. “Nah, I just kept it from roasting you.  It would have died anyways.”  The pout melted from her face, and her lids dropped.  “What color is she?  I saw some of her shape with her fire but…”

“Yellow,” Morgan said, smiling. Bull’s hand cupped on her shoulder, fingers curling around her pauldron.  “I thought she was gold at first, with the sunlight.  She’s mottled green and yellow along the sides, and sort of brown along her belly.  Her horns… there’s just two.”  She took her friend’s hand, bringing her to crouch before the head. 

Asala put a hand on each base of the horn, arms spreading out to either side as she followed the shape. She laughed.  “They’re like my sister’s horns!” she said, voice bright.  “Or yours, Bull.”

Realizing that Bull had followed, and still stood at her side, Morgan stood back up, and reached boldly for his hand. They were both buzzing with energy to burn, and standing still was agony.  But it left no room to care about secrecy or the reputation of the ‘Herald of Andraste’.  Both of their hands were sticky with warm blood, but they squeezed together tightly, refusing to let go. 

Morgan was a mess. Her hair was slicked back from her face with blood, the red wiped from her eyes in a messy streak.  Blood had darkened her armor, standing out crimson against the parts made of silverite.  She was beautiful.  A fucking bloody goddess of war.  She had stood between him and a dragon without fear, ready to take a blow for him.  And she had _killed_ it.  She had slit its fucking throat as easy as breathing, drenching them both in its blood.  She was glorious.  She was _his_.

“We should send word to the camp that—Bull! What are you doing?!”  Cassandra’s face was still a bit pink, her expression somewhere between aghast and confused.

Bull swept Morgan up, draping her over her shoulder with an arm around the backs of her thighs. “Need the Boss for a minute.”  It was the only explanation he offered, striding quickly over the uneven landscape.  Over his shoulder, Morgan saw the Seeker’s mouth widen, and then her face go crimson with realization.  She was trying to say something to Vivienne, but the mage had already turned and was walking away.  Asala was laughing again.

The next thing Morgan knew, she had been pushed up one of the few remaining stone walls in the tiny miner’s village. There was no give to the stone behind her, driving the air before her lungs before Bull’s mouth was on hers again.  She forgot to think about how she might be up against something that was structurally unsound.  His teeth scraped her lips, demanding entry.  She gave it to him, again dragging her gauntleted hands over his back.  She had to be drawing blood.  But he growled and pressed closer, shoulders rolling and pressing into her hands.

Without words, they started yanking at armor, coming to some sort of silent agreement that only the stuff below the waist was important. Bull’s hand was in her smalls before she even had his belt undone.  Instead of taking its sweet time, her body was ready to go, _had_ been since the kiss in front of everyone.  Two fingers pressed into her with ridiculous ease, and she had to break from his mouth to suck in air.  Something tore, and she felt wind on her collar for a moment before Bull’s tongue dragged along her skin, flat and wet and _hungry_.  She tasted of sweat and dragon and _fuck_ , if it wasn’t the most amazing thing he’d ever tasted.  He couldn’t help himself; he bit down, _hard_ , hand clapping over her mouth as she cried out.

Morgan was frighteningly aware of how his teeth pressed to her, canines sharper than any human or dwarf. She felt his jaw tighten and pinch, and the exact moment when her soft flesh gave way, blood welling to the surface.  The pain spread out, sharp and bright, and he dragged his tongue over the bite.  He hadn’t meant to go so deep, and drawing blood… but fuck, it was mixing with the dragons and he felt like he was in battle all over again. 

The sudden yank on his horn made him think he’d gone too far, and he let her pull him away. But the apology died on his lips as she pressed in and bit sharply at his shoulder, sucking the blood-spattered flesh into her mouth.  Her teeth weren’t quite sharp enough to really break his skin, but he would bruise.  He gloried in the idea of wearing them alongside the deep scratches she’d left on his back, beside the bruises that would form where the dragon’s foreleg had caught his ribs.  She groaned aloud against his skin as he pumped a third finger into her, rocking impatiently against him, as eager as he was.

Gentling a moment, he kissed the bloody bite, dragging his tongue over it and shivering as her own blood mixed again with the taste of the dragon’s. There was no conveniently sized ledge to balance her on, so he came away from the wall and lowered Morgan to the ground.  He flipped her over, yanking her up onto her knees.  Morgan pushed up onto her hands, pressing into him, then pulling back was he yanked down her breeches and pushed the tail of her coat out of the way.  She heard him moving, and then he was spreading her open, putting his cock at her entrance and pressing forward.

If there was pain from the minimal preparation, Morgan couldn’t tell. Everything was pure sensation, her nerves blazing with it.  He bore down on her, pressing her into the dirt.  She muffled her drawn out cry into a metal fist, the other hand clawing at the ground, trying to get purchase and push back.  He didn’t start slow or give her time to adjust, and she was glad.  One hand braced on the ground beside her, and his body stretched above hers, Bull held Morgan against him by her hip, slamming into her over and over, his mind tipping towards the hyper-focus of battle, the edge of the dragon’s blood twisting it into something else entirely. 

Either she didn’t care that she was making noise, or she didn’t know. Each thrust wrung a half-surprised little cry from her, some strange mix of pain and pleasure.  The simultaneous lack of awareness and hyper-focus was bordering on terrifying.  But Morgan was saying his name, over and over and _over_ again.  One hand reached for him, wrapping around the arm he braced next to her.  He forced himself to put that hyper-focus towards her voice, instead of the exquisitely wet clench of her cunt.  Even with all her strength, she still felt so soft and fragile under him, pliant and bending so easily to his will.  She took everything he had to give, fully aware that she would be aching later.  He could hurt her if he wasn’t careful, so he listened.

The muscles of his back and torso burned as he brought his head down, putting his mouth to her bloody shoulder. Morgan turned her head to the side, half-whimpering in anticipation of another bite.  Instead, the kiss he pressed to her neck was soft and sweet and oh so gentle.  His hips still slammed against hers, unrelenting.  But his mouth was so fucking gentle.  She whimpered, pressing up into the contact.  His thrusts slowed, and eventually gentled.  Morgan turned her head until her neck ached, seeking his mouth with hers.  He still tasted of blood; of battle and fire and smoke.  But it was the most perfect kiss.  Everything else melted away, and she knew that there would be no more pretending that she didn’t love him.

Fuck.

It was stupid and selfish and he would never feel the same. But fuck if she didn’t love him with all her fucking heart.  Her head dropped away, her cry nearly anguished as she was swept along by her body, still tangled up with the adrenaline of blood and battle.  Morgan let go of everything, losing herself in the feeling of Bull’s mouth on her neck, his breath in her ear, his body moving with hers.  Like this, she could pretend, pretend that he was hers, _really_ hers.  It was enough, it _had_ to be.  She would _make_ it enough.

Bull felt himself falling, and Morgan’s body fluttering around him. He put a hand between them, finding her clit and plucking.  She came undone so easily, quaking under him, cries going silent in favor of trembling, greedy gasps for air.  Bull followed her over the edge, hand digging into the dirt beside hers, the other arm around her middle, pressing her as close as physically possible.  She felt so good like this, even all armored up.  It was like she belonged against him.  He was shaking when he pulled away, hands fumbling as he found his handkerchief and cleaned the mess he’d made between her legs.  While he did, she smirked over her shoulder at him, before rolling onto her back and wiggling her breeches back up.

Dropping down onto the dirt beside her, they laid in silent for a moment, adrenaline finally ebbing. It was Morgan who found her voice first.  “This is going to take some explaining,” she chuckled.  Stripping off her gauntlets and gloves, her naked had found Bulls, squeezing weakly.  He snorted a laugh through his nose, hand squeezing back.  When she looked over, his eye was closed, but he was smiling.

 _“Fuck. I’m a fucking_ idiot _.”_

 

000

 

There was a celebration at the Crossroads. Morgan was coerced into several rousing speeches, and it was hours before she actually got to sit down with a drink of her own.  Of course, it was with Bull.  She had seen him surrounded by shy admirers before, smiling and graciously accepting the drinks they bought him.  But there was a different sort of smile on his face when Morgan sat down beside him.  It was hard not to imagine that that meant something.  There was no mask on his face, and the shift of his body told her that he’d had just enough to drink that he was starting to fuzz him the edges.

“Inquisitor!” He spoke her title with false pomp, making a show of it and drawing a chuckle from her.  “Want to have a drink?”  Even edging towards tipsy, he was still checking in with her.  Smiling, Morgan took the offered cup.  Then she watched him unstopper an opaque, black glass bottle and pour a measure into each of their glasses.  Taking a sniff, her nose instantly burned with the strength of it.  You could probably kill a whole host of infections with whatever it was.  “To killing a dragon like warriors of legend!”

Their tankards clapped roughly together, and they both knocked back the liquid. It burned the whole way down, and Morgan just barely managed to swallow it before she spluttered and started coughing violently.  “Fucking tits!” she rasped.

Bull laughed, fully and hearty. “I know right?  Put some chest on your chest!”  His eyes dropped to said chest, more visible now that she’d stripped out of her armor. 

“I do _not_ need any more chest!” Morgan said emphatically.  Even with the meal she’d eaten, she could feel the alcohol already working its way into her blood, the tension of being around so many people starting to slip away.  She smiled at Bull.  “It really was amazing, wasn’t it?”

A humming sort of growl rumbled in the back of his throat. “That little gurgle right before it spat fire… and that _roar_!  What I wouldn’t give to roar like that.”  He seemed to be staring past her, eye half lidded as he replayed the memory in his head.  “The way the ground shook when it landed, the smell of the fires burning… Taardsidath-an Halsaam.”  He looked back at her, then started pouring more of the burning liquid.  Morgan found herself not objecting.  “You know Qunari hold dragons sacred?  Well, as much as we hold anything sacred.”

Morgan perked up slightly. She’d heard him mention something about it before, but couldn’t quite remember.  “That… thing you just said.  You shouted it during the fight, too.  What’s it mean?”

“Oh, Taardsidath-an Halsaam?” He paused, thinking.  “I guess the closest translation would be, ‘I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.’”

She blinked, then burst out laughing. “You shouted _that_ while it was breathing fire at us?!”

Bull laughed, too. “I know, right?”  He made a growling sort of noise, rolling his shoulders. 

Morgan blinked, then was laughing again. Again they touched their drinks together before swallowing.  It still burned, but not quite as badly.  That, or maybe she was already drunk.  It didn’t matter.  She was with Bull, and she was happy.  He had a broad, silly smile on his face now; he had definitely been drinking.  With the second drink already burning its way down to her stomach, Morgan felt slightly affronted that she could be effected so easily by so few drinks.  The one dwarvish quality she prided herself on was being able to drink most people under the table.

“Second one’s easier, right?” Bull said. “Most of the nerves in your throat are dead after the first one.” 

Morgan heard herself giggle, and scooted her chair a bit closer to Bull. “What’s the qunari word for ‘dragon’?” she asked.

“Ataashi,” Bull answered, a clear note of reverence creeping into his tone. “‘The _Glorious_ Ones.’  That’s our word for them. Ataaasheeee.”  He drew the word out, rolling it on his tongue and smiling. "You know, Qunari hold dragons sacred? Well, as sacred as we hold anything."

“How’d that start?” Morgan asked, hearing the beginnings of a slur.

Bull was pouring more drinks. “Well, you know how most of us have horns?  We kinda look more… _dragony_ … than most people.  Maybe it’s that.”  His eye lit up as he continued, intent on what he was saying.  “But a few of the Ben-Hassrath have this crazy old theory.  See, the tamassrans control who we mate with; they breed us for jobs like you’d breed dogs or horses.”  He chuckled when Morgan made a face.  “What if they mixed in some dragon a long time ago?  Maybe drinking the blood, maybe magic, I dunno.  But something in that dragon we killed… spoke to me.”

Morgan’s brow knitted, and she leaned forward slightly. “When you put it like _that_ , I feel like we killed one of your gods or something.”

Bull waved a dismissive hand. “Nah!  Tevinters worship dragons right?  Kill the shit out of them all you like!”  He poured more drinks.  “Dragons are the embodiment of raw power.  But it’s all uncontrolled, savage…  So they need to be destroyed.  Taming the wild, order out of chaos.  Have another!”  He pushed the tanked back into Morgan’s hands.  She took it in a single swallow, and barely coughed.  “Nice!”  He clapped her on the back.  “To Dragons!”

Grinning, Morgan slid over enough to nudge him in the ribs with her elbow. “To the Iron Bull!”

“And his ass-kicking Inquisitor!” he replied, without missing a beat.

They both laughed, leaning in to clink their empty cups. The tavern continued its dull roar around them, and Morgan was dimly aware that she would have to navigate that crowd, and wondered how steady she was on her feet after that Maker-forsaken drink.  She’d have to ask Bull what it was.  Sh’vara would love it.  Bull’s left hand with the missing fingers was close to hers, and her own fingers skirted the beginnings of a new scar across the back of his hand.

“Hey…” She looked up, blinking him back into focus as he spoke.  “Hey, Kadan, listen.  I always wanna say this, and I never get to when we’re off saving the world.”  He leaned closer, their arms pressed solidly together, Morgan half slumped over the bar.  Bull came in close, as if telling her a very important secret.  She peered at him over his shoulder, waiting.  “You’ve got _fantastic_ tits.”

Something warm and bubbly flooded her chest, and she grinned. “Awww!”  She kissed his bicep, suddenly thinking that it was probably larger than her head.  That made her giggle.  She should complement him back, right?  There were so many wonderful things about him, what did she say?  Her fuzzy mind struggled to focus, but Bull just smiled widely at her, and she forgot, hooking her ankle over his.

 

000

 

A few feet away, Asala froze. She had been on her way over to Morgan and Bull, but now she was rooted to the spot.  Was she hearing things?  It would be easy enough, with the hubbub of the tavern and continuing celebration.  She couldn’t see them, not really, but she knew that they were leaning close, their bodies touching and heat mingling together.  Bull was even more intoxicated than Morgan, so Asala didn’t _think_ he was lying.  His heartrate was only slightly elevated, heat spreading along his skin.  He was _happy_. 

Maker, did he know what he’d said? ‘Proper’ qunari had multiple meanings for that word, for ‘kadan’.  Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth gave it another, much more specific definition.  It was someone you _loved_ , someone far more precious than anyone or anything else.  It was for husbands and wives, sons and daughters.  There were other words for close friends, borrowed and made up.  ‘Kadan’ was special, you didn’t say it to just anyone.  For the first time in years, Asala hated her blindness.  She wanted to see Morgan’s face, to know what the other woman really felt for the qunari at her side.

“It’s quite romantic, isn’t it?”

Asala jerked at the sound of Cassandra’s voice. “What?”

Cassandra was sipping a white wine and smiling, just a little. “The two of them.  They could do with a bit more decorum, but…”

“What? The Ben-Hassrath and the Herald of Andraste?”  The words were sharp, and almost scornful, making Cassandra consider the mage again.

“Forgive me. I know your parents fled the Qun; you can’t have very good feelings about actual Qunari…”  She lowered her gaze, color creeping along her cheeks.

“He’s not actual Qunari,” Asala said softly. “Not really.  He _can’t_ be.”  Her hands clenched at her sides.  “He’s… he’s too different.  All these things he does, they _aren’t_ done under the Qun.  He…  He’s lying to himself.”

Instinct reared its head. “Is he lying to us?” Cassandra asked quickly.

Asala heaved a sigh, and drifted over to lean against an unoccupied portion of wall. “No.  He’s giving us everything.  But this man… he’s not Qunari.  He’s not what they’re supposed to be, but he keeps…”  She dragged a hand over her face.  “If he hurts her, I don’t know if I can take him.” 

“Hurts…? Oh!”  The protective, angry expression came in a blink.  “If he toys with Morgan’s heart—!”  She broke off, taken aback by her own outburst.  The idea was painful.  His jokes were awful and he said things just to get a rise out of her sometimes, but to think that the man she’d come to know might…  Cassandra couldn’t bear to think it.  “You wouldn’t be alone.  The Hera—Morgan… has suffered enough.  I think we could take him together, yes?”  She found herself smiling.

Asala’s startled laugh was loud and warm, showing sharp, white teeth. “We might have a chance.  If Morgan didn’t get him first.”  Her sigh was heavy, the smile slipping away.  “Isn’t this going to cause problems?  The Glorious Herald of Blessed Andraste cavorting with a Tal-Vashoth Mercenary/Ben-Hassrath agent?”

It was Cassandra’s turn to frown. Josephine would certainly have headaches.  “We shouldn’t speculate about their relationship.  It’s not uncommon to seek… relief from trusted comrades.  In… in times like these.”  Her cheeks were pink. 

“Says the woman sighing over the romance of it all,” Asala teased.

The Seeker narrowed her eyes, only to realize that her trademark Stern Warrior Look was completely ineffective against the blind mage. She instead settled for a louder than normal disgusted noise, and stalked away.  Looking back to the pair at the bar, Asala heard their laughter rising above the noise, drunk and full of joy.  They were so fucking _happy_.  Conflict twisted her stomach, and she forced herself to leave.  She’d do or say something stupid if she stayed.  She just prayed that _they_ could keep their own stupidity to a minimum.

 

000

 

The party was still going when Morgan woke up, head aching but relatively clear. Something heavy lay over her waist, and rolling over revealed Bull, laying on his stomach and snoring heavily.  Even with her pulse pounding in her temples, Morgan smiled.  They had apparently found their way to one of the tavern’s boarding rooms. Bull’s feet hung off the edge of the bed, and he’d only managed to get one boot off.  She pressed back into him, noting that _she_ had shucked everything below her waist but her smalls.

Memory hit like a blow, and she felt herself stop breathing for a moment. She loved him.  She was _in love_ with Bull.  Like she had been with Mari.  Instantly, she closed her eyes, pressing her brow into Bull’s arm.  No, this was _not_ like Mari.  It was love, yes, but it was built on a _real_ foundation.  It…  She realized she was trembling, and grabbed fistfuls of the pillow under her head.  Even if she knew Bull would never betray her as Mari had, that he would never lie and pretend… he couldn’t love her back.  Not like she wanted.

It felt like her insides were scooped out and replaced with emptiness, the ache so powerful it suddenly hurt to breathe. Instead of pulling away, she pressed closer to Bull.  It didn’t matter that it made the ache worse.  He was warm and safe, and the best thing that had ever happened to her.  But the tears still came, hot and wet and forcing her to turn her face back to the pillow.  She was going to wake him if this kept up.  So she made a show of yawning, swearing herself awake at the pain in her head.  Bull grumbled something and released her, probably assuming she needed water or air.

Fumbling on her breeches, Morgan paused, wanting to linger in the tiny room with him. He was sprawled out like a giant child, totally at peace.  As she smiled, the tears spilled over, and she clenched her jaw shut against a sob.  Getting outside was easy enough.  It was pre-dawn, the sky still dark, and dawn only a vague idea somewhere in the eastern sky.  Morgan got to a small cluster of trees before everything hit, and she dropped into the dirt with a sob, clutching her arms around herself.

Maker, it _hurt_.  It hurt almost as much the idea of losing him.  Morgan wanted nothing more than to go back to pretending, to go back to just fucking and laughing and fighting together.  Beyond that, though, she knew that _she_ couldn’t go back.  Bull was still there, and would always be.  She stamped down the part of herself that reminded her that their relationship was a first for him.  Thoughts like that would just make her needlessly hopeful.  It took several long, wet moments of hard sobbing and ragged breaths before she was able to relax again. 

And then… it was a relief. She wasn’t sure how long exactly, but she hadn’t only _just_ fallen in love with him.  The love had been there for a while, and she’d been denying it with everything she had.  There would be no more shoving her feelings down, or trying to come up with new words that skirted around the real thing.  Sagging back against the tree, she tried to think logically.  The snide part of her brain pointed out that people in love _rarely_ looked at the world in a logical manner.  But she wasn’t just in love, she was the _Inquisitor_.  She had to be above it all, had to think of what was best for everyone.

Losing what she had with Bull couldn’t happen. Her dependency on him might be unhealthy, but it kept her sane.  She couldn’t lose him.  And it wasn’t like she wanted more exactly.  She still wanted to be his friend, to fight at his side, and, on occasion, be pinned under him and fucked senseless.  He didn’t have to love her to do all that, to be there for her.  The moment she decided that she would never tell him, her stomach clenched.  She’d be lying.  To _Bull_.  Lying was second nature to her, but the idea of turning that part of herself on the first person she’d trusted in years made her feel sick.

But it was necessary. If she said that she loved him, _really_ loved him, he would end things.  He would tell her he couldn’t give her what she needed any longer, and it would all be over.  They could still be friends, she was sure, but gone would be the moments were she could fall asleep in his arms, or when she could whisper a few words in his ear and he’d be waiting in her rooms at the end of the day.  She would lose the one place where she was safe from her role as Herald and Inquisitor.  And that wasn’t an option.  If she was going to keep going, to keep fighting and winning, she needed Bull.

She needed to lie to him.

Standing, Morgan scrubbed at her wet eyes. She was good at lying. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come over if you wanna see screenshots of Morgan in my latest play-through! http://kitsu-hime.tumblr.com/search/Morgan


	28. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition goes to the Emprise, and it's very cold and very shitty. (I'm great at summaries aren't I?)

 

Seeing Red:

 

The mission started like so many others, with a somber and slightly alarming conversation at the War Table. Morgan only realized she’d been clenching her fists when she felt a trickle of blood run along her fingers.  Hissing, she pulled the hand up.  One of the four red crescent marks on her palm was bleeding.  She quickly shoved the hand into her pocket, looking back up at her council, with the added addition of Willen.  Their expressions were just as grave as hers.  Learning that red lyrium had spread as far as Emprise du Lion had evidently shaken all of them.  Varric was going to have a fit.  He’d been chasing down every hireling that had been on the initial expedition, trying to see if anyone had any connection that could be traced, however remotely to the Red Templars.

And now people were going missing. Civilians just vanishing out of a tiny village that had already taken a massive hit when the river froze over.  Willen’s contact had put the Red Templars in charge of the mine that had recently started employing the citizens of Sahrnia.  There was no way that _that_ wasn’t going to end in trouble.  “Start seeing what supplies can be spared,” she said.  “How quickly can we get some winterized armor?”

“Dagna said she finished everyone’s this morning, actually,” Cullen said. “We did try to tell her that there was no guarantee who would be going to the Emprise, but she said it was better to be safe than sorry.”  He shrugged.  “Perhaps Pavus and Tethras will stop complaining?”

“I’m _taking_ Varric, so he’s _definitely_ going to complain,” Morgan snorted.  “Please tell me Dagna made the Iron Bull something with a _shirt_.”  It was Josephine that muffled a laugh behind one delicate hand, the corner of Cullen’s mouth quirking upwards just slightly.  Morgan wondered if Cassandra had told them about her and Bull.  Josephine almost certainly knew, but she was the absolute soul of discretion, so that wasn’t a problem.  “Anyways, the Iron Bull is picking up his new weapon today, so I’ll make sure he gets the new armor, too.”  Again, a minute flash of a smile from Josephine.  Morgan winked back, just to see the ambassador blush.

 

000

 

The sword really was magnificent. The delicate pink hue of the dawnstone really _was_ pretty.  It was massive, almost as tall as she was, and with a blade wider than the width of her palm.  The dark leather of the handle was buttery soft, but not in a delicate way, the silver wire wrapping melting up into a silverite dragon with outspread wings that formed the guard.  The three blood groo—sorry, _fullers_ —running the length of it were each about as thick as one of Morgan’s fingers.  She was also certain that her back, wrist, and shoulder would never forgive her for all the hammering that had gone into the damn thing.  She had to have sweated off at least ten pounds in front of the forges over the last few months.

Giddy joy fluttered in her chest, and she smiled, using a soft cloth to buff away the last of her fingerprints. It was hard not to jump up and down in her excitement, the way Dagna had done when it was finished.  It was a thing of beauty, and would be just as beautiful cleaving through enemies.  The pride she felt for her work tangled with her constant nagging fear that it wouldn’t be good enough.  It was a battle not to physically shake her head as she discarded the thought.  This was _Bull_.  And she’d pestered him with so many questions, and had him test the weight and heft so many times, that it was sure to be what he wanted and needed in a weapon.  But his loud greeting to Dagna from the entrance to the undercroft still made Morgan’s heart jump into her throat.  She half panicked as she wrapped the weapon back in the drape of soft leather.

“I put flowers on it!” Dagna was saying, as she and Bull approached. She was holding a pale silver pauldron almost twice as big as her round face up for the qunari to see.  To get it anywhere near his head, she had to extend her arms fully above her own.  “You have a sunflower on the other one, so I did a moon and crystal grace theme on this one!”  Then she launched into a long string of technical terms for refining ore, and they reached Morgan with her still talking.  “Inq—Morgan!  Good evenin—morning?  Good morning!”

“Morning, Dagna,” Morgan said. As pretty and infectious as the other dwarf’s smile was, Morgan’s eyes didn’t linger on her.  Her hands came together in front of her, fidgeting.  “It’s finished,” she said, suddenly feeling breathless as she gestured to the drape of leather.

“Oooh! The pink dragon sword!”  Dagna clapped her hands and bounced.  “Go on, Bull!  I wanna see you see it!”

Chuckling at her enthusiasm, and giving Morgan a one-eyed wink, he yanked the leather back with suitable dramaticism. The staged grin left his face for a brief moment of pure surprise and awe, eye sweeping over the gleaming edges and the engravings running between the fullers.  Reaching out, his fingers traced the intricate wire wrapping, head tilting as he stared at the guard.  Morgan put a hand on Dagna’s shoulder and they both stepped back, giving him room to swing it upright.  It was hard not to stare at the way his muscles flexed and shifted as they took the weight, shoulders straightening and stance widening.

And he was _smiling_.  Maker, that smile was the most beautiful thing Morgan had ever seen.  Somehow both full of childlike wonder and a vicious sort of glee, already thinking of how it would handle in battle.  Glancing beyond the blade, Bull saw Morgan beaming.  He remembered the plans he’d seen those months ago, and all the times he’d asked where she was, and found her pounding away in the undercroft, glowing with sweat and smeared with soon.  And she had paid such meticulous attention to his answers and preferences.  She looked so fucking proud.  And she _should_ be.  In another life, she could have been a smith employed by kings and queens of every nation. 

A sort of… buzzing crept up his wrist, and a glimmer of green caught his eye. Looking closer, he saw a rune pressed into the center of the guard, and he raised a brow in question.  “Master demon slaying rune,” Morgan said, biting her lip and clasping her fidgeting hands behind her back.  “We’ll have the materials for dragon slaying rune when the rest of the Frostback carcass gets here, but—”

“Hey, we fight more demons than dragons,” Bull said. “Unfortunately.  But this…”  He shifted it between his hands, did a few slow swings.  “This is _perfect_.”  His words trailed into a growl, and she saw the light of battle flash in his eyes.  Fuck, that shouldn’t be so attractive.  If she ever talked more about Bull with her mother, that was one of things that she would _not_ be mentioning.  But she would definitely be mentioning it to Bull himself.  Later.  When there weren’t people around.

 

000

 

“This is shit, Hooks,” Varric muttered from behind his muffler, hat pulled down over his ears.

Morgan, with her pale hood drawn up and her nose pink with cold, slid a glare over to the other dwarf. “What?  Really?  I was already planning to build a summer home here!”  She had never seen so much white in her life. Unless you counted the vast majority of Orlesian nobility, but that was a whole _other_ thing.  She had her left hand firmly anchored under her breastplate, a low level of heat seeping into her bones.  It wouldn’t last of course, as using the Mark required energy that she wasn’t willing to spare.  She supposed Sahrnia would have been beautiful if it didn’t feel so _dead_.  Alright, perhaps that was a poor choice of words.

Frozen bodies were wrapped and ready for fires at the center of town, and stone-faced family members stood before a statue of Andraste, eyes red from tears that had long since dried. They spared barely a glance and Morgan, Varric, Solas, and Bull walked through.  There were whispers of ‘Inquisition’ and ‘Herald’, and a few of ‘qunari’, but beyond that, no one approached them.  Mistress Alban Poulin told a frightening and disheartening story. 

Even with word of Red Templars spreading, these had managed to fool the desperate woman and town into thinking they were Chevaliers, reopening the mine and bringing commerce back to the struggling town. Morgan had an exceptionally low opinion of Chevaliers and knew that Poulin wasn’t telling the whole truth, but that was beside the point.  People were going missing, and there was Red Lyrium.  That was all she needed to know for now.

 

000

 

Hinter loved the snow, but hated his boots. Each step was accompanied by a little kick in an attempt to dislodge the apparently insufferable things, and had whined and cried piteously while she outfitted him in his own winter gear.  He had chased after a snoufleur without trouble, so it was more that he simply didn’t _like_ them, as opposed to them actually hurting.  Unfortunately, the comedy of his motion had only lasted so long.  The remains of ancient Elvhen ruins were interesting, but now only served to make her think of all the things that humans had ruined.  It was a long list, and she put it out of her mind as best she could.  Bull wearing a massive white surcoat under his armor was distracting for a while.

The buzz of the Red Lyrium electrified the Mark in an exceptionally unpleasant way, and Varric’s gloomy face turned to outright angry. Destroying it wasn’t as simple as just smashing the bits.  It was a long, involved process, with lots to do to make sure that nothing got contaminated.  All the party could do was get past it, and fight off any Red Templars in the area so that the mages could come through and do their job.  In the meantime, they were marking spots on the map, and trying not to shiver, or let the buzz get any further into their heads.

All at once, Hinter was snarling, and a red shape burst out of the shadows with a screech worthy of nightmares. Morgan dove to the side with her dog, rolling and coming up with her daggers in hand.  Barriers glowed around them, crackling blue-green in the pale sunlight.  Bull was already swinging, but his magnificent sword cut only air, the Templar Shadow leaping into the air.  It made to slash at Bull’s face with the dagger like crystals that had taken over its lower arms, but was beat back by an explosive shot from Varric.

Then Hinter was gone from her side, and Morgan heard the crash of dog against plate armor behind her. Spinning, she saw Hinter hanging from the arm of another Red Templar, using his weight to drag the man’s sword arm down.  Lunging in, Morgan cut his wrist at the joint of his gauntlet, making his hand useless.  He swung his other gauntleted fist with a snarl, but Morgan was already down and behind him, finding soft spots in his armor in a quick flash of blades.  Kicking the dying man down, Morgan and Hinter leaped clear, turning in time to watch Solas send a rock hurtling up the path to shatter against the chest of what had once been a Templar Captain.

Varric’s first shot hit the man in the eye, and he roared, inhuman and painful to living ears. Hinter bristled, and snarled a challenge.  An arrow buzzed past the dog, and Morgan yanked him back, eyes searching the skyline for the archer.  She caught a fleck of red, and was shouting orders.  “Varric, the ridge above the path!  Hinter!”  He looked to her, and she pointed a hand at Solas, who was focusing on keeping barriers up around them.  “Guard!”  The moment the dog was flanking the mage, she was off, an arrow buzzing past her cheek. 

The Templar Captain was trying to maneuver Bull towards a sprawl of loose rocks, probably hoping that the brace on his ankle was a sign of weakness. Bull never let it show that the ankle occasionally bothered him, but Morgan wasn’t about to risk anything.  She made sure Bull saw her sneaking up behind, her eyes following his movements, reading what he would do next.  The first slice undid the buckles of the Templar’s breastplate, the second opening flesh over a crystal at the back of the captain’s neck.  As he screamed and lashed out, Morgan was forced to drop to the ground, releasing her left dagger as she went.  Then her hand found his ankle, and sung with the cold air.  She watched as ice crystals burst around the lyrium, and Bull’s sideways swing into the newly made ice statue. 

Chunks of him rained down on her, but then a big gloved hand was hauling her up, and Bull was smiling at her. “Didn’t expect that trick from you, Boss.”  Her heart fluttered, and she grinned back.

“I doubt Madame would have been on the ground when she did it. It would probably have looked much more elegant from her.”

With the archer dead, Solas and Varric approached, Hinter bounding ahead of them. “It is still an impressive demonstration of control,” the mage said, watching Morgan dip her head to go over her war hound.  “You catch on quickly.”

“So…” Varric looked around.  “We’re just treating it as normal, I guess?  That there’s a dwarf doing magic?”

Solas’ gaze was sharp, but Morgan cut in. “Well… I mean, what about this whole thing is normal?”

“This shit is too weird,” Varric said, though there was nothing sharp in his tone. “I couldn’t put this in a book; my editor would call me crazy.”

“Don’t try to lie to me, Varric,” Morgan said, eyes glittering. “I know you’re putting this all down somewhere.”  They began walking again after dragging the bodies off the road, and making a discreet trail marker for the Inquisition solders that would follow when the signal was given.  The rest of the road wasn’t going to be easy, and even though it was early in the day, it would still be unfortunate to be caught outside when the temperature plummeted. 

 

000

 

They spent the day in battle, fighting up to Drakon’s Rise before there was any sort of rest. Morgan and Bull were splattered with blood, and she was glad that Dagna had thought to send cleaning powders with them.  It took even longer for the soldiers to make it up the path with everything needed for camp.  Solas did everyone a favor and cast circles of heat in the ground before retiring to the tent he would share with Varric.  Morgan was glad to see that several of the soldiers thanked him with a genuine smile or a respectful nod, instead of the usual wariness.  It was good to see, and gave her a little bit of hope.

Once they had eaten—one had to eat a great deal more in the cold, to match the energy the body expended keeping warm—Morgan crawled into her tent. Her joints ached from the cold, and she made a point of letting Hinter climb under the blankets to lay behind her legs.  She hated wool, but the slightly scratchy material kept her warm.  With the huge dog under the blankets with her, it wasn’t long before the ache had dulled in her bones, and she was actually approaching the realm of vaguely comfortable. 

Bull came in not long after, dropping down with a grunt. As much as she wanted to stay in her nest of warmth, Morgan sat up, wordlessly starting to unbuckle his armor.  Bull caught her eye, and smiled.  Feeling a blush creep up her cheeks, Morgan was glad for the dark tent and Bull’s lack of exceptional night vision.  As her hands circled his ankle and brace, she heard a quick, quiet intake of breath through Bull’s nose.  “The cold fucking with it?” she asked gently, taking care as she eased off his boot. 

It was funny how easily the words came out. “Yeah.  Damp or cold usually do it.  Makes the knee act up, too.”  He put a hand on said knee, then moved to flex and extended it several times.  There was an alarmingly loud pop, and he groaned in relief.  Then grumbled as the ache settled back in. 

Morgan became intensely aware of the moment as it settled in. Bull was sharing this with her.  She knew he was older than her by a fair amount, and has suffered so many injuries he’d probably lost count of the less memorable ones.  And the constant ware of battle could eat away at a body, even when it was well maintained.  She had learned that pain was part of any warrior’s life, assuming they lived long enough.  Maneuvering around, she sat herself between his slightly spread legs.  “I’ve been practicing something.  Can I show you?”  She reached for his hand.  He tilted his head slightly.  “It’s magic, but I promise that I—”

“I trust you,” Bull heard himself say, without hesitation. He tried to remember a time when he really believed that all mages should be bound and subjugated.  It was taught early on that magic was a most dangerous tool, and those with the ability could never be trusted not to hurt those around them.  But in Seheron, there had been hedge-mages that knew little more than how to clean infection and close a wound, and others that had used their abilities to make shadow plays for the children when the fighting had quieted. 

Then in Orlais, he’d seen mages laugh and smile and joke and love. He didn’t know when they had stopped being things that he had to tolerate as part of the local society, and become _people_.  Magic and demons still scared the shit out of him, but as long as the mage knew how to fight without setting their allies on fire, he didn’t have much of a problem with him.  Then there had been the Chargers, where mages stopped being just people that could set shit on fire with their minds and became his _friends_.  Dalish was the first mage that Bull had really trusted at his back, even if she would never admit to being a mage in any way, shape, or form.

And then the sky started shitting demons, and he joined the Inquisition. Lots of mages. _Lots_.  There were _kids_ , giggling as they learned to make frost crawl across windowpanes and lit candles from a distance.  They were snarky Tevinters, intimidating Orlesian courtiers, and… whatever the hell Solas was.  And now, he supposed, Morgan.  He’d seen her in the library, or woken up in her quarters to find her side of the bed empty, and her by the fire pouring over huge books.  She worked so hard make sure that she had control of this new part of her.  He _did_ trust her.  It wasn’t a game to make her trust him.  It was honest.  He held out his hand, and she took it with a smile that was somehow a whole mix of expressions at once.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, Morgan focused on the warmth in her body, and reached for the feeling of flame. She touched the edge of it with her mind, just skirting the idea of fire.  She didn’t want actual flame here.  Laying her left palm flat against Bull’s, she pushed that warmth into her hand, watching a gentle orange glow light the line where their hands touched.  Bull jumped slightly, but didn’t pull away, instead leaning forward to get a better look.  Obligingly, Morgan lifted her hand, letting him see the light pulsing gently under her skin, blending strangely into the green of the Mark. 

“I can’t really get much to the other hand yet, but I could try to massage the kinks out,” she offered hesitantly. She was still so damn scared of what Bull thought about her magic.  She barely knew what to think about it herself.

Even with all the good mages he’d come to know, the warning bells still sounded weakly in the back of Bull’s head. This was so at odds with everything he’d been taught.  But it was _Morgan_.  She was his friend, she was…  He undid the tie that kept his wide trousers—multiple layers of pale wool with _out_ stripes, unfortunately—gathered at the ankle, and rolled it up over his bad knee.  Morgan knew the mess of scars on his knee, the skin darker than the rest, pocked with indents and twisted bits of tissue.  Shrapnel from an elemental mine, he’d said.  Morgan was suddenly filled with the childhood longing to be a healer again, so that she could actually ease the root cause of the damage.

But this would have to do. It had worked on her own right wrist the other day, when her hurry to finish a new pair of socks had left everything below the elbow tight and achy.  She knelt on her knees on either side of Bull’s relaxed, slightly bent leg.  He worked on removing his upper layers—they all laced up the front, thank the Maker—as she laid her hands on his lower thigh, just above the knee.  Just barely digging her fingers in made the knotted muscles twitch, but Bull didn’t make a sound.  She worked slowly, concentrating on keeping the heat level in her left palm.  Working with just one hand was awkward, but now wasn’t the time to experiment with the other one.

She wished she had camphor balm; her mother still swore by the stuff. But she kept her eyes on Bull’s face, and dug her blunt fingers into each knot of muscle, gentling her touch around the actual joint.  He kept undressing, finally reaching his usual state of almost-naked.  Heat was good for this kind of ache, and it slowly started to fade back to its usual place in the background.  He made sure to nod every time she met his eye, reassuring her that no, he wasn’t freaking out, and no, she wasn’t make it worse. 

Looking up, one of those smiles somehow banished the last of her hesitation, and Morgan felt the tension drop from her own shoulders. Eventually, he reached for her hand and drew her to him as he laid down.  It took a moment to order themselves, as Hinter refused to be left out.  Morgan ended up with the dog at her back, Bull’s arm around her, and her head on his chest.  With the blankets tucked in at the edges, the warmth soon returned, and Morgan found her eyelids drooping, and the day of battle finally catching up with her.  She kissed Bull’s chest, and felt him lift just enough to kiss the top of her head.

The chaste gesture cut right through her fatigue, making her chest tighten. He was so fucking good to her.  Maker, she’d never thought that would hurt.  But she could feel the words, sitting on her tongue.  They were as heavy as lead.  He didn’t have to do this.  He didn’t have to cuddle close to her and let her touch him with magic she had no right having.  The sex did wonders for her tension, helping her let go of the pain and anger she carried.  But he did more, and _appeared_ to like it.  A wave of terror kindled the beginnings of nausea in her stomach. 

What if it was all a game? All this tenderness just a show put on for her because he felt sorry for her?  He saw that she was lonely and was trying to paint himself as the kind-hearted lover, someone for her to turn to when it all became too much.  Worse yet, what if he was using this as a way to make her trust him for the Qun?  No matter how impossible it seemed, the idea cut at her, and she suddenly felt as if she’d swallowed a ball of nettles.  But instead of drawing away, she curled her legs tighter where they tangled with his, her arm reaching as far over his chest as possible, hands curving over his ribs and pressing herself close.

It was bittersweet, pressed closed to the assured solidness of him, while her stupid, soft heart pounded against her ribs, aching for him. She felt herself on the edge of something dangerous, so sharp and beautiful it could easily cut her to ribbons.  But then Bull squeezed back, making a quiet sound as he let himself drift, and the pain vanished.  Morgan pushed out her anxiety out in a breath, and let her eyes close again.  Like everyone else, she just had to make do with what she had.

 

000

 

Willen’s source made contact the next morning. She was an older woman, a dwarf with nut brown skin and black curls that were starting to go gray.  Dressed entirely in white, she had all but materialized while everyone was huddled around the fire in the first rays of sun.  Her name was Petra, and she kept slipping into Orlesian when she wasn’t speaking trade with a very thick accent.  Thankfully, Morgan had been taking lessons with Josephine, and Bull already spoke the language.  With that, they got a description of a series of camps set out with the missing villagers forced to work mining red lyrium.  The moment Morgan spoke about the Templars, Petra spat on the ground, and called the Templars several choice insults before availing herself of their breakfast. 

Morgan found herself without much of an appetite, and gave the rest of her breakfast to Hinter. The last report from Petra had been of corpses, with huge gaping holes where red lyrium had been gouged out.  She remembered Fiona, in that alternate Redcliffe of the future, her frail body full of the stuff, probably growing inside among her organs…  A hand grabbed her arm, startling her back to the present.  It was Varric.  “I know that look, Hooks.  We don’t need two dwarves getting pulled down with all this…”  His hand dropped, and he drew it over his face.  There were shadows under his eyes, and he looked so damn guilty when he met her eyes again.  “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“This is _not_ your fault,” Morgan said instantly.  “The lyrium, my dreams, none of it.  It’s _Corypheus_.  He’s the one that made me see that shit.  He’s the one fucking _farming_ it.”

Varric somehow managed to draw in on himself without moving a muscle. “But if it weren’t for me, the stuff wouldn’t even be _around_ for him to—”

Morgan grabbed him by the shoulders, startling him into looking her in the eye again. What he saw actually started a little curl of fear in his chest, her usually calm eyes blazing.  “No!  Not you.  It’s not _your_ fault.  You’re a good man, Varric, and I won’t have you blaming yourself for some fucking Darspawn shit trying to be a nug-fucking god!”  When she realized how loud she’d gotten and how hard she was holding on, she yanked her hands back, the anger melting from her face.  “I’m sorry, Varric, I shouldn’t have…”  She clenched her jaw.  “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

He offered a weak half smile. “It’s okay, Hooks.  I know you meant well.”

It broke Morgan’s heart all over again, almost as much as knowing Bull’s feelings for her would never be quite the same as those she had for him. Varric was such a good man, for all he pretended to be, as Cassandra had put it, a conniving little shit.  And maybe sometimes he really _was_ , but she was a giant fucking liar who couldn’t be honest with her best friend.  Who was she to judge?  “You deserve to be happy, Varric,” she finally said, not sure how to give voice to all the feelings spinning in her head.  “If nothing else, be happy just to spite the stupid ancient shite.”

The other dwarf laughed, and shook his head. “Spitefully happy, huh?” 

“Exactly.” Morgan’s smile was crooked, her eyes hard-edged.  Varric knew that the softness was still there, that unending kindness weathering her rage.  It surfaced again only moments later, when Morgan fussed over Hinter’s armor and exposed skin.  He had such thin fur, probably coming from whatever wasn’t Mabari in his blood.  He saw her check him over with a furrowed brow, adjusting things here and then.  Then the dog licked her face, and she laughed, clear and light.  There she was.

 

000

 

The first camp was the hardest. Not in terms of fighting, though.  There were only three Templars left, grousing and grumbling as lyrium-addled humans struggled to continue their work.  The red glow lingered in everyone’s eyes, and Morgan knew in her heart that all of them would die.  She took a sick joy in taking the Templar’s lives, bearing her teeth in a snarling grin as the last one fell. 

All they could do with the people was get them back to the Inquisition camp, and make them as comfortable as they could until they died. Or until they begged for death.  Morgan looked at the worst of them, and knew that it would be soon.  Full of shame, she hurried to get back out there, arguing that they could maybe help the others that had been captured.  She just didn’t want to wait around helplessly while innocent people died in agony.  As they left, she felt her shoulders bow with the shame, hunched and low.

But shame served nothing, and besides, anger was easier. All she had to do was fight, and that was blessedly easy.  Just blood and death and nothing more.  Then those she freed smiled at her, they embraced her, bloody and dirty, and cried into her hair.  They wept and kissed her hand, and one man threw himself at her feet.  Her anger softened, but did not abate.  She smiled, and promised that she would make the Templars pay for what they had done.  If she prayed on their pride as Orlesians, or on their expectations of her as the Herald of Andraste, none could blame her.  They blessed her over and over, and when the summoned scouts appeared to take them back to camp, they went with a smile.

“It never gets any easier.” Her words were soft, little more than the frosty breath that came with them.

Bull wasn’t sure if she meant seeing people hurt or having them bow to her like she was some sort of god. He knew she didn’t think of herself like that, and that any sort of worship, hero or otherwise, made her feel deeply uncomfortable.  That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.  The seeing people hurt thing, that would always bother her.  Especially now that she had the power to do something about it. 

Before moving on to the next camp, they made a thorough search of everything. That unearthed something even more unsettling.  The name ‘Sampson’ rung bells in Morgan’s memory, back to one of the many meetings with the advisors after the fall of Haven.  There had been reports of a human man in red lyrium armor.  At first, they had thought him just consumed like the others, but other reports—little snatches from far-flung corners of the map—proved that it was only the armor that glowed red. 

Cullen knew Corypheus’ new general. Or _had_ known him, in Kirkwall.  Morgan had dug into it, and been disgusted.  Sampson had been turned from the Templar Order for smuggling love letters between a Circle Mage and their sweetheart.  The mage had been made Tranquil.  He hadn’t seemed like a bad man, and had apparently had ties to smuggling mages _out_ of Kirkwall, even if he had still been a known lyrium addict.  Morgan wondered if it was that that had driven him to Corypheus.  A few short messages mentioned supplying red lyrium for Sampson’s armor, and Morgan folded them all carefully into the oilskin envelope in her pack before they pressed on.

 

000

 

“More demons. Lovely.”  Morgan dipped a rag in a small break in the ice and used it to scrub a splatter of inchor from her face. 

“And a fairly powerful one, it seems,” Solas had remained silent during the conversation with Michel de Chevin. “It even has a name.”

Morgan knew enough about the disgraced Orlesian chevalier not to like him. He’d been involved in something that had caused the decimation of a Dalish clan at the hands of a demon.  Presumably this Imshael that he now entreated them to defeat.  She had no intent on denying the plea, but she wouldn’t do it for him.  Smart demons were dangerous, and left nothing but pain in their wake.  What had surfaced about the fate of the Templar order, and a demon of Envy, had only added to the already list of evidence. 

To defeat the demon, the Inquisition was going to retake the ancient Suledin Keep. Even from a distance, Morgan could tell that the keep had been built by elves.  It was a truly massive thing, long since lost to the wild and the will of what dared to grow in such a cold climate.  There was a sad look on Solas’ face for a moment as they neared the gates, but then they were fighting the first of the demons, and the expression was lost to battle.  Morgan couldn’t begin to understand, even if he did seem to regard the Dalish with some scorn.  He didn’t make sense.

The lesser demons, on the other hand, made perfect sense. They roared and screeched and clawed, and tried to kill any living thing they set their sights on.  Solas caught sight of Morgan and Hinter bringing down a Terror together, the dog braving the long razor claws to pull one arm out of Morgan’s way.  She went for the other arm as it reached for the canine, hacking with a dagger that blazed intermittently with fire.  The Veil sang around her, drawn, swirling, to the Mark on her hand.  And she heard the song, tugging at strands of possibility to bring to life flame and lightning in small bursts.  Impossible, but still happening before his very eyes.

The rune in the new sword let Bull cut through the demons like butter, making it almost too easy. But when he cleaved the head from a Shade advancing on Morgan’s back as she recovered from a roll, he decided that easy was good.  Easy let him watch.  When his arm was knocked back, he let go of the sword with one hand and grabbed, tossing the demon to the waiting Hinter like a fucking bone from dinner.  The dog had gotten bigger, he realized, as Morgan vaulted around the animal to make sure the Shade didn’t claw at him.  He was almost proper Mabari sized now, almost eye-level with Morgan when he was on all fours.

A shout from Solas sent Morgan ordering the dog back to the flanks, guarding the mage and Varric. Then it was just the two of them, cutting through Templars now, all full of red rage and pain.  She was giving him space, watching his back as he fought with his new weapon.  Fighting with a broadsword was different from fighting with an axe, and Morgan had learned enough to know it.  He could feel the buzz of magic on his skin, under layers of wool and armor.  Mages had always set his hair standing on end, even when they’d been Sarebaas.  Morgan never threw fireballs or bolts of force, instead stabbing her dagger into a soft place and filling the victim’s innards with flame or ice. 

And her flasks. They set her blazing, making her impossible to touch without injury.  The timid little rogue that had hung back with her bow and arrows was gone, replaced with a fucking _warrior_ charging in and always looking back to make sure that her friends were safe.  She was a fucking whirl of blood and magic, unlike anything he’d ever seen.  Other Qunari would not look at such a person and call them ‘friend’.  They would see her uses, of course; no one else could close Rifts.  But her magic… she was technically _Bas Sarebaas_ , even if she was a dwarf.

But he felt her at his back, heard her breath and her snarls of defiance as demons and former Templar monsters pressed in. This wasn’t Qunari.  This wasn’t Qunari _at all_.  There was playing a role and then there was…

No. They had all proved themselves.  Each of his friends had bled for him more than once, put their bodies and their lives on the line for him.  There could be nothing wrong with that, whatever the Qun said.  He knew it wasn’t perfect.  But it was _good_.  It _was_.  He shook his head when the fight ended, and no reinforcements poured in on them.  They had a moment. 

Morgan rolled her shoulders. Her knuckles ached, but she didn’t dare let go of her daggers.  She was tired.  Not only was she using her body, but drawing from some well of magical energy.  Mana, Dorian had called it.  She liked to think it was a good thing, being able to rely on both.  If her body gave out, she could set things on fire.  If the fire went out, she could just keep stabbing.  Maker, what had she turned into?  Hinter loped around the corner, Varric and Solas in tow.  As the dog approached, she went through the ritual of checking him over.  With all this red lyrium, she was worried about poisoning as much as injury.  His mouth received the most attention, making sure that there were no shards that he might swallow.

“With all the stuff I’ve seen him eat, I’m pretty sure that lyrium would probably just give him gas.” The smile on Varric’s face was forced, but there was a softness in his eyes.

Hinter made faces and huffed as Morgan poked and prodded among his many sharp teeth, before wiping her slobbery, bloody gloves on the snow. Looking up, she was met with nothing but sky.  Wherever they were in the massive, sprawling structure, it had been a beautiful courtyard once.  The empty branches of the massive trees were beautiful in a barren sort of way, and Morgan wondered if there was ever any green in the Emprise beyond the pine and fir trees.  The trees were large enough to be centuries old, the heave of the ancient stone twisted about by roots almost as big around as Morgan herself.  If only the elves could be allowed to reclaim what was theirs, just like nature was trying to.

She shook her head, and took a few gulps of water from her canteen. “Solas,” she said, “this place feels…”  The words eluded her, like a taste in the back of her mouth when she hadn’t eaten anything strange. 

“The Veil is exceptionally thin here,” he said, eyes following a similar path to hers. “Both with ancient memory and…  Red lyrium is not good for anything, in this world or beyond.”  The lines between his eyes deepened.  “To dream here now… Risky would be putting it _very_ mildly.”

“Yeah, sleeping here really isn’t on my list of things I’d like to do,” Varric muttered. “I don’t even dream and I know this shit is creepy.”

Morgan was immensely glad for how large the Inquisition had grown, and the many resources that they had and their disposal. But she had no time or energy to think about how massive a clean-up operation that a mining operation of this scale would entail.  Those were details she could sort through later, when the hum of the Veil didn’t press in on her.  She knew that if she focused, she would feel the pull and attention of spirits, pressing against the barrier.  So they kept going.

They found a Giant corpse, littered with red crystals and stinking as it decomposed in an iron cage.

A shiver of fear prickled the hair on the back of Morgan’s neck. “You’ve _got_ to be shitting me,” she muttered, as Varric poked around the abandoned field desk tipped over a few feet away.  When she joined him, he was holding papers and looking pale.  He let go of the paper like it had burned him, and Morgan saw why a few lines in.  “Fuck!  Oh, that’s just fucking _perfect_.”  When Solas and Bull drew near, she waved a hand at the corpse.  “They have _more_ of those. _Not_ dead ones.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Bull’s lip curled, hands adjusting on the grip of his sword.

“Succinctly put,” Solas agreed.

“Humans always come up with the most stupid shit!” Morgan dragged a chilled hand over her face.  “I mean the dwarven caste system is shit but… fuck.”

“Got that fucking right,” Bull muttered, expression sour.

“And now my dog has to go fighting lyrium giants!” Anger and frustration and fear piled in on her, plain and exposed on her face.  Bull knew just how bad it was getting to her, that she couldn’t spare enough energy to put on a mask.  “A dragon would have been easier.”

“Well, Harding said something about at least two separate sightings, so you might get your wish, Hooks.”

“Maybe I can just ask the dragon to torch the Templars.” Everyone had their weapons drawn as they pressed further in.

 

000

 

Morgan hated giants. She would have given just about anything to fight a herd—pack?—of pissed off bears instead.  And not the small, black bears from the Marches, who got just as scared as you did if you met by accident in the woods.  No, she would have gone up against a hundred of the massive Ferelden brown bears.  Mother bears.  With _cubs_.  Yes, their giant paws could rip out your throat with one lucky swipe, but they didn’t have _hands_.

 _Giants_ had hands.  Big, nasty, grabby hands, that were perfect for picking up small, annoying people and tossing them a few miles.  Thankfully, _that_ only happened to one of the humans that was trying to act as a handler.  They had prodded the creature’s leg with something that flared with light, and then they were picked up and _tossed_.  Morgan would have felt more sorry for the giant if it hadn’t kept trying to grab her and Bull.  Unless Andraste was willing to come down and perform a miracle, getting picked up by it would be a death sentence.  So Solas and Varric peppered its face with magic and arrows, drawing its hands up to protect its eyes. 

Even the biting cold couldn’t deaden the stink of it. Morgan had come to know the smell of decaying flesh.  The giant was dying, body rotting from corruption even as the lyrium forced it on in agony.  All at once, her anger was gone, replaced with nothing but pity.  Yes, giants were dangerous, but they kept to themselves for the most part.  They were just dumb beasts, and they had been _used_.  The roars no longer sounded like challenges to her, but screams of pain.  Her chest tightened and ached.

“Bull, get it down!” she shouted. “Back of the knee!  Going for its throat!”

There was blink where he looked at her like she was mad. But he saw the pain on her face as she watched the failing creature.  So he struck, ducking between the legs to land a crashing blow at the back of the giant’s knee.  He didn’t stay to see ligaments and muscles split, getting as far as he could, as fast as he could.  Spinning, he saw it go down on its side, the roaring scream making his ears ache and his head pound.  And there was Morgan, wreathed in alchemical flame and _climbing the damn thing’s back_.

Using a jutting node of lyrium as a foothold, Morgan cut with all her strength. With its thick hide, she knew it would take everything she had.  She pulled with both blades, sinking them deep and jerking back with the full weight of her body.  Brownish red blood sprayed the snow before the giant, its scream petering out into a gurgle.  Then it sighed, a wet, tired sound.  As it pitched forward, Morgan leaped clear, tumbling in the snow.  When she came up, Hinter was already bounding towards her, the others on his heels.  Putting an arm around the dog, she glanced back, and her chest tightened again.

“Poor bastard,” Varric muttered.

“Let’s—” Her voice caught on the lump rising in her throat.  She swallowed, and tried again.  “Let’s kill the rest of these assholes, alright?  This shit needs to stop.”  She got nothing but agreement from the others.

 

000

 

Solas considered Morgan’s back as they walked. She had come a long way from that terrified dwarf that had flinched when he grabbed her left arm and thrust it towards the sky.  Sera would have said that she was less ‘twitchy’ now.  Solas thought she wasn’t as closed off.  Her masks were still there, nearly always, so much a part of her that she probably didn’t know how to set them down.  But there was less and less of the stony, blank mask that she had presented at the beginning, emotions too many and too complex to funnel into anything useful.

The one thing that hadn’t changed was her compassion. She had pitied the creature bent on killing them, pitied its pain and the abuse it had suffered.  It could have killed her, had _wanted_ to kill her.  But in the end, all _she_ had wanted was to end its pain.  He’d seen her do that before, with a ram that had gotten caught in the crossfire in a fight with apostates.  The poor beast had been covered in burns but still alive, and the stony-faced young woman had pulled her belt knife and slit its throat in one quick motion.  There had been a moment, a crack in her carefully crafted façade.  Then she had blinked away the shine in her eyes and they’d skinned and dressed the animal.  For all her emotion, she had always been practical.

As they advanced, Solas saw her demeanor change again. She cut into the Red Templars with flaming blades and bestial snarls of rage.  In vengeance for the poor dumb creature, she cut her foes to ribbons, fighting all the harder for someone else’s sake.  Even if that ‘someone’ could hardly be called a person, and even if they were dead and wouldn’t have thanked her anyways.  He could feel the demon now, something ancient and powerful.  His warnings met with grim nods and Morgan spitting promises of death. 

They had to kill more Templars before they went through the doors. Morgan could feel it now, too, the strangeness of the Veil made solid in the form of a being.  That being looked like a normal human man when they came through the large double doors.  The only inhuman thing about him was the energy that swirled the room, red lyrium and something else.  There was a familiarity in the way the hair on the back of Morgan’s neck prickled, and the way her chest tightened the moment she laid eyes on the demon.

“Ah! The hero arrives!”  The voice was sharply edged.  “Or is it murderer?  It’s so _very_ hard to tell.”  Right, _this_ was why she hated demons.  They saw things they shouldn’t and dragged them up, knowing just what would cut or unsettle. 

The others fanned out to either side, Hinter beside her, head down and teeth bared. “And you’re the demon Imshael.  You’re _definitely_ a murderer,” she spat.

The demon cleared its throat, rolling its eyes in a fair impression of an exasperated Cassandra. “Choice.  Spirit,” it said pointedly, its tone making Morgan’s lip curl.

Bull growled. “Ah, talky ones… I _hate_ the talky ones.”  He took a few steps forward, sword out to the side and ready to swing.  Hinter made a quiet sound of what was probably agreement, his gentle lean putting his mouth full of very sharp teeth between his master and the demon.  Demons looked like people who gave pets but they _smelled_ wrong, something sharp and dead under the smell of human fear.

Imshael held up its hands. “Wait, wait, _wait_! _These_ are your friends?  They’re very violent.  It’s worrying.”

“What’s worrying is that you think talking to us is going to help you at all,” Varric said. Bianca was leveled.

“But we could be _friends_!”  His eyes looked past Morgan to Solas.  “ _You’re_ friends with Spirits.” 

Morgan didn’t give Solas time to answer. “No.  You’re a demon and I kill demons.  It’s what I do.”

Imshael made sound of immense annoyance. “Oh for—!  Choice! _Spirit_!”

The human façade was gone in a blink, a rage demon roaring up and filling the courtyard with the smell of smoke. Hinter sailed past him, tackling a Templar Shadow to the floor.  Morgan threw herself bodily against Imshael, her body bursting with ice crystals.  She put that cold in her daggers, feeling the flesh vibrate and sizzle.  Leaping away, she ducked and rolled opening a path for Bull to come in with his sword.  The demon slaying rune blazed bright, cutting deep into the side of the creature.  But instead of dissolving from the mortal injury, the form shifted, molten flesh turning to ash and the temperature plummeting.

They yanked themselves back as the pile of ash caved in on itself, a despair demon spiraling out of the remains, shooting daggers of ice in all directions. “Oh, _fuck_ you!” Morgan snarled.

With Imshael now dancing and flying about, it was up to Solas and Varric to pin it down. More than once, Morgan saw Hinter yank one of them back or out of the way, watching the battle intently.  Every now and then, Imshael would land, trying to build up power for an attack.  Morgan and Bull would fall on him, timing their strikes to alternate, hacking as much as they could.  He shrieked, form collapsing again.  A new shape reared up, and Morgan froze.  It was the Nightmare.  Not the huge, hulking spider with the eyes, but thing that had lunged for them, full of rage and hatred as Solas and Hawke had channeled power into the Anchor. 

Bull saw her go still, eyes wide and terrified. She wasn’t going to react in time.  He hit her, hoping the impact wouldn’t break too many ribs.  Morgan went flying, tumbling through the snow.  Claws bit through leather and cloth, sinking into Bull’s back and driving him down.  Fear spiked, fresh adrenaline surging into his blood.  He heard screaming— _not_ Morgan—and then he felt fire.  A massive wave of heat passed over him, singing the back of his head.  He snarled in pain as the claws came free of his back and the weight vanished.  Getting up right away wasn’t happening, but he craned his head, trying to see.

Varric, Solas, and Hinter had been blown back, the ground wet and scorched in front of them. A living ball of flame had engulfed Imshael, his cries lost in the roaring of the flame.  Only when his body was reduced to ashes, and no new form came forth, did the fire around Morgan die away.  She slumped to her knees, smoke rolling off her.  Hinter got to her first, nearly pushing her over as he nosed around her neck, sneezing at her singed hair.  The ringing in her ears faded as she used the dog to haul herself up.  She had to keep leaning on Hinter as she made her way to Bull.  The fear and concern was laid bare on her face as he looked at his back, the white starting to stain crimson. 

Then she saw the burns. Small and slight, the backs of his ears were flushed, the skin raw-looking.  Her stomach dropped, and her head snapped around to Varric and Solas.  They were standing, staring at her.  There were scorch marks on their armor.  As the realization washed over her, relief that everyone was alive turned to horror.  A quick examination of Hinter showed scorched fur and red skin.  She spun and wretched, emptying her stomach onto the ground, body heaving again and again until the acid burned her throat. 

It had been _her_. _She_ had hurt them.  She’d hurt her _friends_.  All she remembered was Bull going down and then feeling so fucking _angry_ …  Then nothing but fire and hate, her hands grabbing, tearing… A hand touched her shoulder and she flinched, unworthy of concern.  Varric was met with wide, terrified eyes, and they filled with tears at the redness on his face, the frizz of his slightly singed hair. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!”  The words strung together, babbled and tangled with tears.  She took a few wobbling steps back, her head spinning and lungs screaming. 

Bull stared, his own mind buzzing. _This_ was why mages scared him.  The raw, primal power, given strength by emotion. _Sarebaas_.  Then she was Morgan again, tiny and small and _crying_.  He approached her slowly, treating her as one would a wounded animal.  The pain on her face tangled with his fear, her regret and anguish so plain on her face.  She flinched at the touch of his hand, but stopped trying to move away.  “Easy,” he murmured.  “Easy, Boss.  It’s alright.  We’re all fine, right?”  He shot a meaningful glance at the others.

“Shit happens, Hooks,” Varric said with an easy shrug. “Not like I haven’t gotten singed before.”

The words _hurt_.  They were lies.  Lies lies _lies_!  They _had_ to be!  She’d _hurt_ them!  Bull had gone down, and the thought of losing him, of losing someone she _loved_ …  Just remembering that thought made her ache, and she grabbed hold of Bull, pressing her wet face into his cold armor.  Her feet left the ground as she was lifted up, gathered into his arms.  His armor bit at her skin, put she pressed into the pain.  She deserved to hurt for what she’d done.  Hatred and guilt settled like a chunk of ice in her chest, fear turning a prickling heat under her skin.  Even as she sought safety with Bull, she wanted to run, to break away from him and get as far away as she could. 

It was _her_ fault.  And she’d hurt him with _magic_.  How could he even look at her?  Fresh tears rolled hot down her chilled cheeks, her breaths wet and shaky.  But he didn’t let go.  He didn’t drop her and run, didn’t look at her with scorn or fear.  He just carried her.

 

000

 

None of them were badly hurt. Healing potions erased the evidence of burns on their skin, but the blackened and leather and metal remained, silently accusing.  The Keep was now flooded with Inquisition soldiers, Morgan and the other huddled around a fire.  None of them spoke a word, Morgan’s face as stony as the fortress around them.  The scent of burnt hair lingered around her, and she was half tempted to take a knife to it.  It would be cropped short again, and her beautiful winter armor was now a smoky gray.  Everything going on felt far away, a distant echo that she couldn’t hold on to. 

Her companions’ silence— _Bull’s_ silence—felt like a confirmation of her fears.  They didn’t know how to react to what she’d done, didn’t know what to say or do.  Bull was at her side, as usual, but he had been staring into the fire, and had been for hours.  Morgan _knew_ that her mind could take her dark places, could make her believe that she knew what a person was thinking.  Just then, all she could imagine was that he hated her.  She desperately wanted to believe that it was just her mind, just a horrible fantasy.  But she was also sure that she didn’t deserve that reassurance.  She deserved to be shoved aside, discarded for her folly.

The ache in her chest opened up like a pit, swallowing her. The scars on her wrists and thighs burned with her awareness, the knife in her boot suddenly as heavy as lead.  If given a moment alone, she knew she’d be crying again, or putting a blade to her own skin.  But for now her eyes were dry, the salt trails dried on her cheeks.  She didn’t realize she had been clenching her fists until Bull reached over and gently forced his thumb into her tightly curled fingers.  Blood smeared over his hand, four red crescents marking her palm.

When she tried to draw away, Bull’s grip tightened, and she looked over at him. Fuck.  He didn’t think he’d ever be bothered by fear; he was a big, scary, scarred up warrior; that scared people, and it didn’t bother him.  But Morgan’s terror was so fucking plain, her face raw and open.  She was like a deer waiting to bolt at the first sign of movement.  And it was all directed at him.  She was scared of _him_.  Well, not him _exactly_.  Her friends were the most important things in the world to her, and she was ready to lay down her life to raze anyone who threatened those she held dear.  And now she had hurt them. 

He pushed past the memory of the heat passing over him, swallowing down the memory of her standing amid the blaze as its source. His hand tightened around hers, squeezing gently.  She needed him.  Confusion flickered in her face, brows coming together as she tried to read him.  He shoved it all down, his uncertainty and fear, and gave her only a tired mask, with the barest hint of a smile.  It had been a long day after all.  Guilt twisted like a knife in his gut.

 _“Liar,”_ it accused. _“You’re_ lying _to her. You know she’s too distraught to read you and you’re_ lying _.”_

Reaching out, he used his other hand to scratch Hinter under the collar, drawing a long, satisfied sigh from the dog crouched under Morgan’s legs. It seemed to be enough, and he saw some of the tension leave her shoulders.  She kept looking over at him, furtive and concerned.  Each time, he gave her a little nod and a smile.  A meal was served, and he let go of her hand to eat, but didn’t move from her side.

Morgan didn’t eat much, spooning at least half of it down to Hinter. She wanted to drink.  More than anything, she just wanted the numbing buzz of alcohol, to just drink until all her mind could handle was laying down and sleeping.  Maybe it would turn out to be some twisted dream, a Demon trying to tempt her.  Or simply hurt her.  But Bull’s looks were soft; eye tired and his movements stiff.  The cold had to be bothering his joints.  He didn’t flinch when she touched him, when she squeezed his arm as she stood, stretching before she retired to one of the tents. 

When he followed, removing his armor and laying beside her, her heart rose back into her throat. But he didn’t roll away, gathering her to his side as he always did, Hinter curling behind her legs.  When his hand covered hers where it lay across his chest, the tears started again.  They started and they didn’t stop.  She knew she was apologizing, the same words coming out over and over again.  Bull just stroked her hair, saying nothing.  Eventually it all came down on her, and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I earned the angst tag with this one. Some of you might notice I have another story up, but don't worry that I'm leaving this one. The other one is far less planned out and is just for fun when Morgan and Bull aren't cooperating with me. Feel free to have a look if you want. Thanks!


	29. Where Once We Walked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. It was just a REALLY tough chapter to write. I have no idea how many times I started it and scrapped everything to start fresh. Thank you for being so patient for me.

Where Once We Walked:

 

The next morning, Morgan was herself again. A bit more apologetic to Solas and Varric, perhaps, but nothing beyond that.  But Hinter stuck closer to her side than usual, constantly looking up to his master’s face.  Bull saw her hand tighten on the dog’s collar, as if trying to hide a tremble.  He didn’t bring up the incident, but every now and then, during a lull in conversation, he’d catch her eyes, trying to search the familiar depths.  But she just smiled at him.  It appeared small and hesitant, but real, strength she was trying to reach for.

Bull wished that he could have believed it.

 

000

 

Skyhold felt exactly the same as it had before, but stepping into the familiar courtyard felt strange, as if something were missing. She felt as if she floated through reports, and barely remembered Cullen’s reaction to hearing about what Sampson was doing.  There had been anger again, but it just didn’t… sink in, rolling off her like water on a duck’s back.  She answered all of Leliana’s questions in the same, even tone.  Her only flicker of expression was when the spymaster told her that those that had not survived the captivity of the Templars had been returned to their families and been given last rites. 

Eyes stinging, Morgan blinked rapidly, and excused herself. The library called to her; the smell of books and the ever growing collection of new tomes was usually a comfort.  But that would mean Dorian, or Solas, or even Enchanter Fiona.  Just the _thought_ of having to speak to someone, to explain what had happened in the Emprise if they asked… she couldn’t bear it.  Bull had been in the Herald’s Rest with the Chargers last she heard, one of their songs filtering up through the courtyard.  The urge to go to them was even stronger than the urge to hide away in the library.

The pain finally reached her, and her chest tightened so sharply that she gasped. She couldn’t go.  Not after what she’d done.  No matter what anyone said, there was no forgiving it.  All the mages she knew worked so hard to control themselves, to not be seen as monsters simply for the gifts they’d been born with.  And here she was, an unworthy criminal stepping up like their savior, when she couldn’t even control herself.  What right did she have to decide their fate when she was so unstable?  What right did she have to _lead_ them?  To lead anyone?

Hinter was leaning into her leg before the first sob escaped, strangled and swallowed down. _‘Not here,’_ she told herself, forcing the quivering expression from her face. _‘Not here, not here!’_ Turning on the steps, she strode purposefully through the hall.  She had learned that if she stared straight ahead with a serious expression, and walked quickly, people usually didn’t bother her.  That lesson got her through the great hall with nothing beyond a few formal greetings and regal nods.

The moment she was behind the door leading to her quarters, she felt the tears start. They rolled down her cheeks as she forced herself forward, vision blurred as she half stumbled up the familiar steps.  She would have fallen twice if not for Hinter.  A soft mewing reached her through her own ragged breaths as she came to the second door.  Pulling it open, Little Chief was staring up at her, bottle brush tail lashing impatiently.  Sniffling wetly, Morgan crouched and gathered the cat into her arms, where she hooked her front paws over Morgan’s shoulder, butting her head against the dwarf’s chin. 

Such freely given affection brought a fresh wave of pain, and Morgan lingered on the stairs, stroking the loudly purring animal as Hinter nuzzled her hip. It hurt, to be loved so easily.  She could have hurt Hinter, hurt him _badly_.  But he just came running back like any abused dog.  No matter what was done to it, it would always return, hoping to please its master.  There hadn’t been a hint of fear in him, not once.  Not even when she used her magic to light a torch on the journey back.  He had only sneezed as the pitch caught light. 

Eventually, she made it to the top of the stairs, the Little Chief’s fur now slightly damp with tears. As deep as she was in her own feelings, Morgan knew she wasn’t alone in the room. A horned shadow extended from a chair by the fire, and she froze, a hand instantly coming up to wipe at her face as she struggled to quiet her wet breathing.  “Thought you were with the Chargers,” she managed, wincing at how audible the tears were in her voice.

Bull stood with a quiet grunt, walking across the floor. “Not where I’m needed right now.”  Morgan couldn’t look up at him, hiding her face in Little Chief’s fur.  But she could feel him standing there, feel his gaze on the top of her head.  The gentle touch to her freshly cropped hair made her flinch, and she hated how quickly he drew away.  “Morgan.”  He didn’t ask anything of her.  Not to look at him, or speak to him.  He just said her name, and it felt like a knife between her ribs.  His hand shifted, fingers drawing along the line of her jaw, touching under her chin.  But he didn’t lift.  “You don’t want to look at me?”  His voice was deceptively even, hiding the hurt and confusion he had to be feeling.

“I can’t,” Morgan whimpered, clutching to the cat in her arms. Mercifully, the Little Chief didn’t object.

“That’s fine,” Bull said gently. There was no commanding edge to his voice this time, no attempt to seduce or tantalize.  “Can you sit with me?”  He gestured back to the fire, where he’d dragged two of the softest chairs to face the flames.

Morgan nodded. “Think so,” she mumbled.

“Only if you’re sure,” Bull said, stepping back to give her room. “I’m not going to stay if you really want me to leave.”

Yes, fuck, she wanted him to leave. If he left she wouldn’t have to face what she’d done, and what she was afraid she’d do again.  But she couldn’t say it, desperate for forgiveness and solace that she didn’t deserve.  Unable to give any sort of voice to her tangled thoughts, she moved to sit down, releasing Little Chief, only to have the animal curl up in her lap immediately, Hinter’s head resting on her feet.  The chair beside her creaked as Bull sat down, silence following him.  For the first time since they’d met, it wasn’t a comfortable silence, sharp and clawing at her, making her shoulders hunch.

“I want to help you, Boss,” Bull finally said, still in that damnably soft tone. “You’re hurting.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Morgan lied, voice perfectly blank and even.

Bull laughed bitterly. “Yeah, and Dorian’s into tits,” he snorted. 

“I _have_ to be fine, Bull,” Morgan said stiffly.  “I’m the Inquisitor.”

“That’s not _all_ you are,” he shot back, and she could feel his eye on her now.  “You’re Morgan.  You’re a fucking _person_ , and people get hurt.”  He could see the pain in her.  It wasn’t painted across her face or audible in her voice.  He saw it in how perfectly she wore her mask, in the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.  The way she went through motions was just a bit too perfect, just a bit too easy going. 

He was right, damn him. Nothing had changed.  He was still vastly intelligent, too used to wearing his own masks to not be able to recognize hers.  She wanted to hate him for stripping away her defenses, for leaving her open and exposed, unable to hide.  “I don’t know how to fix this, Bull,” she whispered, not trusting her voice beyond that.

Bull shifted in his seat, trying to get her to look at him. “You really think it’s broken?  Solas and Varric were startled sure, but I’m pretty sure they don’t give a shit now.  You killed the demon, right?”

“I put my friends needlessly at risk!” Morgan snapped. _‘All for_ you _.’_ She swallowed those words, pushed them down, down, _down_.  “And you all… you all just laughed it off!  It’s not like I took us down the wrong path and we were stuck camping in the rain, Bull!  I could have _killed_ them!  Why doesn’t anyone see that?!”

“Do you know how many times we’ve all almost killed each other?” Bull said, voice rising slightly, testing his control. “Close calls happen all the time in combat.”

“No!” Morgan insisted, starling the Little Chief from her lap. “No, I can’t be like that!  I have to be _better_!  We still don’t really know what the Mark is, and what it could do!  What if I rip open another Rift?  Or reopen the Breach?!  If I can’t control myself, I have _no_ right to lead you!”  Her voice cracked, turning to a broken rasp.

“What? You think you should be locked up for your magic?  Wasn’t it you who fought tooth and nail to keep the mages from being treated the same as they had in the Circles?  The one who went toe-to-toe with Cullen and told him he was fucking _wrong_?”  He was getting louder than he’d meant to, and brought it his voice back down.  “You have faith in them.  After all you’ve done, don’t you deserve a little of that faith, too?”

Morgan heard the pain in his voice, the rawness. “This isn’t normal magic, Bull,” she whispered.

“Pretty sure people have been going out of their way to call _all_ magic anything but normal,” he muttered.  “One of the issues you seemed to have with the Chantry.”  What had happened to him, that he was sitting here defending mages and their magic so ardently?  The answer was right in front of him, but he pushed the thoughts aside.

He was right. But that didn’t change anything, not this time.  “Bull… people are just shrugging this off.  I mean, Solas can understand; he knows I’m used not to this, that magical control takes time and practice.  But you…”  She finally looked at him, vision blurred and eyes red.  “How can _you_ , of all people, just sweep this aside?  Magic _scares_ you!  I can’t believe that you’re not upset, I just can’t.”

His brows furrowed deeply, head tilted. “You… _want_ me to be angry?”

“Yes! No…  I don’t…”  Her shoulders sagged, the fire going out of her.  “I don’t know, Bull.  But I can’t… I can’t just _move on_.  I fucked up, there _has_ to be—”

“Consequences,” Bull said, understanding starting to creep in. “You want there to be consequences for your actions.  You don’t want people to overlook your mistake just because they think you’re ‘special’.”

Morgan blinked. That was it.  Bull had cut right to the center of the knotted mess in her chest, drawing it all out into the light.  “I… yes.”  She leaned back in the chair.  “Yes, that’s it.”

“I can give you that,” Bull said, voice lowering slightly, a darker edge creeping in. “If you want punishment, I can give that to you.”  Looking at him properly, Morgan found herself shivering.  There was heat tangled in the darkness of his gaze now, a shiver crawling down her spine.  “You just have to know something.  I would not be hurting you because I’m angry with you, and upset at what you’ve done.  I can’t…  I won’t do that.”  He shook his head again.

It was a terrible idea. A stupid, stupid, _stupid_ idea.  Being that close to him was what had _caused_ the mess she was in.  But she didn’t stop him, she couldn’t bear to.

“And you need to know that before we even think of discussing this further. I do not want to cause you harm for what you did, Morgan.  Can you believe that?”  There was a desperate tone to his voice, almost begging.

She looked him square in the eye, taking in every little motion of his face, shift of his eye and jaw. Part of the tension in her uncurled, letting herself believe what she saw.  Her self-doubt screamed at her that it was a lie, that he hated her.  Getting to her feet, she closed the distance between them and hugged Bull tightly.  She couldn’t put him above the others again, but she need him, needed what he was offering.  Just the idea of being able to atone, in some way, made the weight on her shoulders ease, and the knot in her gut _seem_ smaller.

The pressure of Bull’s embrace was grounding, his smell familiar. Hinter curled around the backs of her legs, his wagging tail smacking the side of Bull’s chair.  “I believe you,” she whispered into Bull’s neck, and could have sworn she felt him sigh with relief.  If she thought hard enough, she could convince _herself_ that it had been the truth.   “I want you to stay.  Can you?”

“For a while,” Bull said, hand stroking her back. “You want to go to bed?”

Shaking her head, Morgan climbed into his lap, laying sideways with her legs draped over the arm of the chair. Curling in on herself, she let her ear press to Bull’s chest, calming her breathing until she could hear the beating of his heart.  A weight alighted in her lap, and fur tickled her face before the loudly purring Little Chief butted her head into one of Morgan’s hands, the loud meow demanding attention.  Hinter huffed and turned in a circle before curling at Bull’s feet.  Morgan knew it couldn’t last, but she closed her eyes, trying to commit each sensation to memory.  The warmth of Bull’s body, the sound of his heart and breathing in her hear, and Little Chief’s paws gently kneading her stomach as she purred.

Tears dried and itched on her cheeks, but she didn’t care. Morgan pushed everything away, counting each of her breaths, matching them to the rhythm of Bull’s.  Encircled in his arms, she could pretend that nothing had changed.  She wasn’t sure how low they stayed like that, or how long it took her to drift off, but when she awoke again, she was laid out in bed.  Bull was gone, but she wasn’t alone. 

Hinter was under the covers and curled behind her legs, and Little Chief was stretched out on the pillow beside her. When Morgan stirred, the cat left the pillow, purring softly as she took up a new position against Morgan’s chest.  As the rumbling purr grew louder, Morgan squeezed her eyes shut.  She didn’t get much sleep after that, but what she _did_ was mercifully dreamless.

 

000

 

The next day, she had breakfast with her mother, and told her nothing. Before, her mother had been her confidant, a woman who understood her the best, especially when Morgan’s own mind was working against her.  But Morgan wasn’t the same person anymore, and she didn’t have the strength to explain it all.  She wasn’t the daughter Rebka knew, not really.  It hurt, it hurt more than anything else.  But for Rebka’s sake, she pretended.  She let herself fall back to what she had once been, quiet and sweet, with just a little edge to her jokes.  It was unhealthy and stupid, but it was all she had the strength for.

That sweetness was gone by the time she was called to a meeting with a visiting member of the Merchant Guild. She was sharp and cunning, chasing the man around their conversation until she rooted out what he really wanted, and what he really had to offer.  It would be a small concession on the part of the Inquisition, one that both Josephine and Leliana could turn to their advantage with what they would gain.  That little satisfaction got her out onto the wall without incident.  She saw Bull running drills with the Chargers, a group of Inquisition soldiers watching from the sidelines.

She and Cullen nearly collided on the wall, the papers in his hands scattering as he muffled a curse. Morgan pounced on the loose sheets without thinking.  For all the magic of Skyhold, it didn’t stop the wind from ripping important documents out into the mountain sky.  Some of the pages ended up with her boot-print on the edges, and a few were torn, but nothing was lost.  “Fuck, I’m sorry, Cullen,” she muttered, brow furrowing deeply.  And her mood had been improving, too.

“No, I should have been paying more attention,” Cullen said, doing his best to smooth out the most rumpled pages. “It’s…”  He trailed off and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Are you alright?” Morgan’s mind easily switched gears, her brows furrowing and keeping her hands back in case a touch might startle him.

“Just a headache,” he muttered. “No need to concern yourself.”

“I’d concern myself if Josephine got a paper-cut, Cullen,” Morgan said, and he looked up to find her with wry half-smile.

“I imagine the page responsible would meet a very unfortunate end,” Cullen found himself saying. “Leliana is… protective.”

“If Cassandra didn’t stab it first,” Morgan muttered. The man’s cheeks colored slightly, but he grinned.  “I mean it, Cullen.  Are you… alright?”  She put more emphasis into the words, trying to show her meaning without being too blunt.  She knew little about lyrium withdrawal, but with the amount of the stuff around Skyhold, it couldn’t be easy.  And it was easier to worry about him than her own mess.

The expression on his face went from startled to soft. “Yes, for the most part.”  His eyes were raw and open for a moment, weakness exposed in his weak smile.  “I’m…  I’m managing.”

“Just remember you don’t have to ‘manage’ alone,” Morgan said. The words felt terribly familiar and she shifted awkwardly.  “Let me know if you need anything.”  She meant it though.

“Of course, Inquisitor.” And they parted ways.

 

000

 

Bull was in her quarters that night, the animals left with other people they got along with. A little thrill of fear rolled down Morgan’s spine, already wondering what was going on in his head.  She wasn’t sure what sort of expression she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the subdued warmth he met her with, gesturing for her to sit next to him on the white couch.  As she did, he dragged one of her low tables over with a foot, the wood groaning across the stone floor.  Another shiver went through her as she eyed the bag on the table. 

“It’s okay to be scared,” Bull said. “I have it pretty well planned out in my head.  You want to know what to expect, or—”

“No,” Morgan said, already knowing for certain. “I trust you, Bull.”

“That’s good,” Bull said with a nod. “That’s important.  Now I know you want this, but you have to promise me.”  He used his knuckles to make her look at him.  “You have to promise you’ll use the watch word if you need it.”  His gaze had taken on that familiar unyielding quality, something he only showed when something was important to him.  “I don’t want you letting me hurt you beyond what you can take because you’re angry with yourself?”  Something raw flickered in his eyes for a moment, pained and open.  Just as quickly, it was gone.  “I enjoy hurting people like this, but I don’t enjoy doing harm.  You have to _promise_ , Morgan.”  Despite his best efforts, desperation crept into his tone, his hand coming out and catching hers, squeezing gently.

He knew her too well. He saw through everything.  Refusing the watchword when she normally would have used it, to prolong the pain and punishment, was just the sort of self-destructive thing that Morgan would do in her current state of mind.  The promise rose to her lips, and easy reassurance.  But she tasted the lie, and faltered.  But she squeezed his hand back.  “I _want_ this,” she said softly.  “I want you to hurt me and push my limits.  I will _try_ , Bull.  I promise you I will try my hardest to recognize when it’s too much.  But I can’t… I can’t promise more.”

He should have said ‘no’. He should have recognized that she was still too raw, too far from a good headspace for this.  But he wanted to help.  Bull _knew_ it would help her, even if her reasoning was twisted.  So he would have to be careful.  If she couldn’t recognize her limits, he would have to.  His hand lifted to cup her cheek.  “I’ll take care of you, Boss.”

This. This was why Bull had ended up mattering more than everyone else.  To do what she needed of him, no matter what it was.  Understanding sank in, and a lump rose in her throat.  “You always take care of me, Bull.”  The words hurt.  She leaned into his hand, covering it with one of her own.  She would destroy the world for him.  Whatever he might ask of her, she would give, just because she loved him.  It was dangerous, and it had to end. 

Part of her began to panic, as if separate and somehow only now recognizing what she intended. She wanted to wait, to let him give this to her.  She wanted it, might even need it.  And Bull wanted to help, _liked_ helping.  Shouldn’t she let him?  No.  Tears blurred her eyes, and it was easier not to see him, not to see the kind, familiar face.  Easier, but not by much.

“But we need to stop.” It was only a whisper, just a breath, and she was afraid that he hadn’t heard her.  Then his hand fell away, and her blinking revealed a hard, scrutinizing gaze.  He was waiting for her to explain.  “I care about you, Bull.  So, _so_ much.  And that’s…”  Maker, it was a battle just to get the words out.  “It’s _dangerous_.  I value you over the others, over the fucking _Inquisition_.”  She would destroy it for him, if he asked.  That was why it had to stop.  “I can’t keep doing that.  And I… I won’t be able to put the distance I need between us if we keep… doing this.”

Bull felt numb. Questions screamed at him, confusion and other, unnamed emotions tangling in a knot.  “You want to stop.”  It was a question.  His body language didn’t change, but his face was impassive. 

No, she didn’t _want_ to stop.  She _had_ to.  If she didn’t, she go on loving Bull more than anything. _He_ would be what decided things for her, not the good of the world or the Inquisition.  That couldn’t happen.  And he would never love her back, never feel the same ache to be close, the same simple fondness.  “Yes,” she said.  “I don’t… fuck, this sounds bad but I still want to be your friend.  Your friendship was important to me before…”

_‘Before I loved you.’_

But she didn’t say that. “I _need_ you as a friend.”  She was on slightly firmer ground, and was starting to be able to push past the lump in her throat and the tightness in her chest.  “It’s hard for me to trust people and you’ve _earned_ that trust.  I’m not throwing that away just because…”  She stopped herself, clenching her jaw.

He wanted to understand. Instantly, he was trying to think if he’d done something wrong.  Had the suggestion of physical punishment been too much?  Had he pushed too far?  His hands slowly closed, fighting the urge to reach for her.  “Because…?” he prompted, and saw her fail to suppress a flinch.

Morgan was scrambling, trying to think of a way to explain without actually telling him that she _loved_ him.  But then… maybe that would be easier.  Qunari didn’t do love.  Not romantically, anyway.  And her feelings towards him were definitely romantic.  Yes, telling him would help him understand, and make it easier to move forward.

“Because I’m falling in love with you,” she said, the words falling to a whisper at the end. “It’s… clouding my judgement.  I need to stop.” Even that was a lie.  She wasn’t _falling_ in love with him.  She was already _in_ love.  It was too late to stop that, too late to go back.  But being able to sleep beside him, cuddled like they were really lovers, was letting her prolong the illusion, and pulling her deeper.

It was a sudden and harsh reminder of just how good at lying Morgan was. He had been around long enough to know what love looked like, knew how to use those feelings to his advantage.  But she had hidden it from him, keeping what they had unchanged.  He was actually impressed.  And she was right.  The knowledge that she was making the _right_ choice stuck in his head, and he pushed on it, repeated it over and over until the confusing mess underneath went quiet.  She was making choices, not for herself, but for the Inquisition. 

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a casual tone to his voice. “That sound like a good idea.”

Despite having been the one to bring it up, Bull’s words hurt. Morgan swallowed the pain down.  This was expected.  Love caused trouble under the Qun.  It was to be shunned and put aside.  The good of the many was much more important.  But now she realized that some delusional and naïve part of her had _hoped_ that he might love her back.  But he understood.  He wasn’t angry.  That was a _good thing_.

Morgan made herself smile, making a show of letting out a breath of relief. “Thank you for understanding.  It’s… hard, because I _do_ trust you, and I don’t want anything else to change.”  The smile she gave him was genuine.  “I couldn’t ask for a better friend, Bull.”

She meant that. The other words were part of a mask, her trying to hide her pain,.  And fuck, she had to be hurting.  Bull had seen love fuck so many people up so badly.  But Morgan was level-headed enough to recognize it, and to try to put a damper on it.  She was being smart.  It was the right choice.  So why did his chest feel like all his insides had been scooped out and replaced with stones?  Why did his lungs feel like they were being squeezed?

“Still glad I’m here for you, Boss,” he said, and he meant it. However she needed him, he would still be there. 

 

000

 

When Bull left, Morgan was alone. She hadn’t planned on this.  She hadn’t set out to agree to what he offered and then just end the sexual aspect of their relationship.  Long after he had gone, she was still sitting on the couch, just staring at the place he had been sitting.  Just like that, it was over.  Pushing to her feet, Morgan left her room in a hurry.  She slipped down to the cellars, and came back with the strongest bottle of alcohol that she could find.  A smiling and polite request got her some crusty bread and soft cheese from the kitchens.

Going back to her room, Morgan didn’t bother with a cup or a glass. She uncorked the bottle and took a long, burning gulp.  The food sat, temporarily forgotten as she made a nest of blankets for herself in a chair by the fire.  She kept drinking, filling her empty stomach with swallow after swallow.  The tears started not long after, and she didn’t bother holding back. She curled into a ball and sobbed, hating herself for every breath.

It was the _right_ thing to do!  Putting a single person above the Inquisition could _not_ happen!  Ending things with Bull before anything else happened was a _good idea_!  But none of that stopped the hurting.  She hadn’t lost his friendship, true, but she had wanted _more_.  No matter how stupid or unlikely it had been, she had _hoped_.  Hoped he would have tried to convince her not to let go, not to stop.  But he hadn’t.  He had _understood_. 

So very Qunari.

Fuck, he probably agreed with her, and could even now be thinking positively about how pragmatic she was. Morgan had recognized her feelings for the liability that they were, and taken steps to ensure they wouldn’t get in the way again.  He would _admire_ that.  She was struck by the selfish desire to tell him how much it hurt, to _show_ him the pain that setting him aside had caused.  But as much as she hurt, she didn’t want that for Bull.  He had done nothing wrong.  He had done nothing but what she asked of him, nothing but what she needed.

No matter how much she wanted to hate him, it was impossible. And his gentle acceptance was just one more reason she loved him, one more reason she was hurting.  Why couldn’t he have been a dwarf?  Or a human, or _anything_ but a damn Qun-following Qunari?  Just like before, her heart had ended up broken.  At least he hadn’t tried to kill her.  Or been following her Aunt’s orders. But it didn’t matter how much she told herself that she was _lucky_ to have him as a friend, as someone who would fight beside her, and watch her back no matter what, it still hurt.  The tears kept coming, and she abandoned the drink.  She would want it later, when she had cried herself so empty that sleep was impossible.  But maybe she would get lucky and just cry herself to sleep.

 

000

 

_Termination of sexual relationship initiated by Inquisitor._

_Confession of possible romantic feelings towards Hissrad._

_Inquisitor did not wish to_

Bull paused, staring at the lines of text, a drop slipping off the end of the quill. He dragged a hand over his face.  The words stared up at him. _‘Romantic feelings’._ How had he fucking _missed_ it?  He wanted to berate himself, to make it _his_ fault.  But Morgan was almost as good a liar as he was.  She’d lived up to her training, and kept him in the dark.  She had _lied_.

He didn’t know why it hurt. It _shouldn’t_.  She had been trying to keep going as if nothing had changed, trying to hold onto something she enjoyed without making him uncomfortable.  He could _understand_ that.  But it still hurt.  Thinking of Morgan lying to his face, of looking at him and thinking about him, but not _telling_ him… it fucking _hurt_.  And it shouldn’t.  He had gotten far too attached to her, let his feelings enter into their interactions.  He’d _cared_. 

This was better for both of them.

He wouldn’t have to contemplate how fucking one of his friends could lead to trouble. He wouldn’t worry about what thinking of her as ‘Kadan’ meant.  She was his friend, his comrade, his leader.  And now she’d proved herself even more worthy of that respect, able to set her own personal feelings aside for the good of her cause.  For the good of everyone.  He had to remind himself that _he_ was also a part of ‘everyone’. 

She’d been hurting. All at once, he saw her face again, his nearly identic memory calling up their conversation in a blink.  She’d been fighting them, but there had been tears in her eyes.  She had probably been waiting for him to leave, so she could be alone when she—

The quill crumpled in his hand, a small dribble of black ink dripping over the heel of his clenched fist and onto the page. He swore under his breath, letting ruined quill drop to the floor.  This wasn’t a hurt he could help with.  This wasn’t something he could _fix_.  Fucking or not, he _cared_.  He didn’t want to think of her crying any more than he wanted remember how fucking scared and angry Krem had looked that first time, bloody and bruised on that tavern floor.

He had to make sure that she talked to someone. Of course, it couldn’t be him.  She was crying _about_ him, and he took a great deal of care not thinking about that at all.  But she needed to talk to someone.  Rebka Cadash came to mind first, but something about telling Rebka that her daughter was crying because she had been in love with him was… uncomfortable.  The other obvious choice was Dorian.  Or Varric.  Hell, even Sera.  The number of people she trusted enough to let past her walls had been growing. 

Even in the middle of his own turmoil, Bull smiled. Morgan was hurting, but she had friends.  She wasn’t alone like she had been the last time.  There were people that _cared_ about, that she trusted.  The Breach may have royally fucked her over, but what she had forged since then would last a lifetime.  Those thoughts gave Bull some peace of mind, and made it easier to finish the report.  Leliana would know by the end of the night, and he hoped that she would understand that it was _Morgan_ that had been the one to end things.  He couldn’t blame anyone if they got a little mad at him though.  It would be easier to deal with them being angry than the fucking knot of whatever the hell it was tightening his chest.

 

000

 

Morgan stared up at the ceiling. She could feel the haze of alcohol in her limbs, and knew she’d be unsteady on her feet if she got up.  The dried tears on her face were starting to feel itchy.  At some point during her tears, Hinter had come in.  First, he’d tried to crawl into her lap, not seeming to realize that he was, in fact, a giant mutt of a war dog and not a miniature nug.  When that hadn’t worked, he’d laid his head in Morgan’s lap and stayed there, occasionally lifting a heavy but gentle paw to her knee. 

The softness of his ears was familiar and comforting in her hand, her head dropped back on the rest of the chair. _‘I could be drunker,’_ she thought to herself, feeling the smooth glass of the bottle where it was wedged between her hip and the arm of the chair.  She looked down at Hinter.  “It would make going to sleep a lot easier,” she mumbled, his ears perking slightly at the sound of her voice. 

Hinter sighed softly, puffing out his cheeks.

“Yeah, I know I’ll fall asleep just fine if I go now,” she muttered. “But I might _dream_.”  If she dreamed, demons would come, trying to take advantage of how distraught she was.  Thinking of that made her whimper, and she leaned down, folding herself over Hinter and hugging him tightly.  He pulled his head from under her, laying it over her shoulder.

Morgan slid from the chair to her knees, dwarfed by the huge animal. He let her hold and lean into him, making a grumbling noise as if trying to soothe her.  When she let go, he laid down beside her on the floor, watching with his head on his paws as she took another drink.  It was getting easier to ignore the self-loathing, to ignore her weakness for drink.  She _knew_ it wouldn’t make the hurt go away, and could even make it worse.  But she wouldn’t sleep otherwise.  If she just drank until she passed out, it would be easier.  Pulling the bottle down with her, she took another long drink.  And then another, coughing at the last burning swallow.

She wasn’t aware of going into the room with the bath, but Hinter jumped over the edge and sat in it, blocking her from reaching for the knobs that might start water flowing. Morgan blinked, then smiled.  “Good boy,” she mumbled, clumsily patting his head.  Undressing down to her smalls, she laid on the cool stone floor, removed from the warmth of the fireplace.  Holding up her left hand, she watched the Mark glimmer and dance, filling the whole room with a pale green glow.  “Fuck you, Corfnus!” she snapped, suddenly and loudly enough that Hinter jumped, ears going back.

“’S all ‘is fuckin’ falt,” Morgan continued, sitting up and giving the room a moment to stop spinning. “Would still jus’ be sleepin’ with pretty girls ‘n bars ‘f ‘e hadn’t fucked it up.  Wouldn’ be falling in love with q’nari that can’t love me back.”

Hinter followed her back to the main room, her clothes left in a pile on the floor. There was a gray splotch stretched out on the middle of her bed, and Morgan had to blink a few times before her vision cleared.  It was Little Chief.  As Morgan drew closer, she heard the rumbling purr from the big cat, and the animal blinked a single eye slowly at her.  Fresh tears took Morgan out of nowhere, just thinking of Bull’s stupid ‘one eyed winks’.  Crawling into the bed, she dragged the cat to her chest, placing a clumsy kiss on the top of her head.  The cat sneezed indignantly, but let herself be hugged, butting her head against Morgan’s damp chin.

Even in her drunkenness, Morgan knew that the cat couldn’t like being squeezed the way she was doing. When the animal _still_ showed her affection, Morgan let go, petting more gently and whispering a quiet apology.  The bed dipped as Hinter leaped up, spinning in circles several times before curling himself behind her sprawling legs.  Morgan opted for hugging one of her many pillows, dragging her extra blanket up from where it had been folded at the foot of the bed.  The Little Chief adjusted herself to curl against Morgan’s belly, meowing in protest when the human sat up to remove her stay.

“You two ‘re th’ best,” Morgan mumbled, scratching Little Chief under the chin and patting Hinter’s ribs. “Y’ don’ judge me.  Wull… m’be you _do_ , but you don’ _say_ anything.”  Hinter licked the sole of her foot in response, and the Little Chief continued her loud purring.  The fire might be dead by the time morning rolled around, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.  She had done enough caring for the day.  She was going to take a break.

 

000

 

The sharp knocking on the door the next morning was like a fucking battering ram, and Morgan instantly hated herself for her stupidity. She had a full pitcher of lovely water by her bedside, but hadn’t thought to drink any of it.  Now someone wanted to see her, and she was hungover and mostly naked. 

“Just a minute!” she shouted, Hinter leaping from the bed and running to the door, snuffling and whining impatiently. Morgan pulled on one of her night shirts, and tried to rub some of the crust from her eyes.  She looked out the window as she went to the door.  It was early, the sun only just starting to peek over the mountains.  Opening the door, Morgan wasn’t sure who she’d expected.  But there was Leliana, fully dressed and with her hands clasped behind her back.

“May I come in for a moment, Inquisitor?” the spymaster said, all business. The tone instantly made Hinter’s tail stop its furious wagging to droop; she was not here for playtime or belly rubs. 

Morgan had given up trying to read the much more experienced Rogue. Were all Bards rogues?  Or could you be a Bard and still use a Warrior’s techniques?  She quickly discarded the useless thoughts.  “Course.  C’mon.”  She turned, barely hearing the human’s footsteps following her back up the stairs.  “Everything alright?” she asked, pouring herself a glass of water while Little Chief rubbed against her ankles.

“That’s what I came to ask you, actually,” Leliana said. Turning, Morgan found her standing a bit closer than expected, worry painted across her gently lined face.  A hand came out from behind her back, a sealed cylinder—the kind for coded messages—in one hand.  “The Iron Bull submitted a report this morning.”

Morgan stared. He’d… reported it.  She shook her head.  No, of course he would have.  She had expressed before that she didn’t really care if the Qun knew about she and Bull sleeping together, as long as he wasn’t doing it because _they_ told him to.  He’d assured her that he wasn’t, and she’d believed him.  Morgan found that she still did.  She looked up, stone-faced.  “And?”

“And _was_ it you that ended things?” Leliana said plainly.

“Why would that matter?” Morgan said. “Relationships end all the time.”

“Yes, but you and the Bull are— _were_ quite close.  If he hurt you in any way—”

“What? No!”  That much was the truth, and Morgan dropped her mask. Suddenly feeling tired.  As much as she was hurting, she didn’t want anyone angry at Bull for something that _she_ had done.  “No, it was me.  I was… I was wanting more than someone like him could give.  Continuing like that wouldn’t have been healthy.”  She met Leliana’s eyes squarely.  She had left out the part about nearly frying her dog and two of her friends to save Bull, Leliana already knew.  “ _I_ did the ending, Leliana.  Don’t punish him for this.” 

The bard nodded. “Of course.  Whatever you think is best.”

Morgan took note that the response wasn’t exactly a promise, but didn’t press. Instead, she dragged a hand through her hair.  Just _talking_ about it with someone else made a lump rise in her throat again.  She had to keep moving, or else she’d just dissolve back into tears again.  Her eyes were already stinging.  “Was there anything else?” she asked tightly, when Leliana didn’t move to leave.

Leliana nodded.  “I had intended to bring a matter to your attention first thing, but then Bull turned his report.”

Despite it all, Morgan felt a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. There was news so important it couldn’t wait until the usual morning War Room meeting, but Leliana had asked after Morgan’s personal life _first_.  It eased a bit of her pain, and she gestured Leliana over to her desk, dropping down into a seat.  Guessing at what the matter was proved impossible with Lelana’s consistent calm expression.  So Morgan waited.

Preferring to stand, Leliana leaned her hip against the side of the desk. “Our messengers to Empress Celene have been murdered.” 

Morgan sat up, what little ease granted by Leliana’s care evaporating. “By who?” 

A curl of her lip told her Leliana didn’t know, and hated it. “None of our ravens have returned either.  I have already assumed the worst.”

“So our warnings about assassins haven’t gotten through.”

A stiff nod. “That is the assumption.”

“Well, _fuck_.”  Morgan scrubbed a hand over her face, pinching the bridge of her nose.  Now she had a whole new reason for a headache.  And she wanted another drink. 

“Inquisitor,” Leliana began, her change in tone making Morgan look back up. “You have expressed… _strong_ opinions about the treatment of Mages by the Chantry, and of elves by—”

“Humans?” Morgan cut in.

Though it faded quickly, Leliana’s smile was rye, a brief twinkle passing through her eyes. “I assume you have heard of the burning of the Halamshiral alienage?”

Cool, removed anger rippled through Morgan. “Orlais did a good job of hushing it up,” she muttered tersely.  “But you hear things.”

“I was there,” Leliana said, her tone had become so icy that Morgan nearly shivered. “Things… did not go as planned.  There are things you should know, about Celene, and Briala.”

“I know you mentioned that they had been lovers,” Morgan said, sitting forward in her chair.

“Celene certainly believed she loved Briala, and for a time I think they _were_ in love.  Briala loved her, though I can’t say I know _all_ the details of their relationship.”

“I’m assuming this is about more than jilted lovers?” Morgan said.

“Celene had Briala imprisoned and her parents murdered,” Leliana said bluntly. “There’s a great deal more to it, and I have all available information in the reports.  But you should read them.  You should know as much as you can about who you’ll be dancing with, Inquisitor.”

Morgan had never cared much for nobility of any kind, and learned quickly that the animal-loving Ban of Ostwick was far beyond the norm. Tevinter might be worse, if Dorian was anything to go by, but that didn’t change all of the awful things she’d heard about Orlais.  While events surrounding the massive fire in the Halamshiral Alienage were foggy at best, it was far from the worst thing.  And then there was the civil war with Gaspard de Chalons, the empress’s cousin who wanted the throne.  That was a whole other mess, tearing the Dales to shreds.

And Gaspard had talked about want to invade Ferelden again, which was _lovely_.  Even if it wasn’t her home, Morgan _liked_ Ferelden, and it wasn’t _just_ because of how well dogs of all kinds were treated there.  Having something to focus on, something learn that wasn’t about magic or herself drew her like a magnet, and she stood.  “I’d like to have a look as soon as possible, if I could,” she said.  “I can get dressed and meet you in the War Room in a few minutes?”

Leliana nodded and smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

Despite having something new to think about, Morgan’s heart dropped like a stone the moment she was alone again. She gave up fighting the tears and sank to the floor.  Maker, it still hurt.  It hurt worse than before, because she couldn’t change what she felt to hate.  Bull hadn’t betrayed her, hadn’t done anything wrong.  He was still her friend.  So she was left with love in her heart, tearing her to pieces.  Hinter tried to nuzzle her cheek and she shoved him away.

Instantly she felt even worse, drawing the big dog into a tight hug. Forcing herself to dress, Morgan scrubbed her face until her cheeks were rosy, and hoped that no one would ask about the puffiness around her eyes.  At least it gave a reason for her lashes to be wet.  She’d happily admit to drinking far too much the previous night if it stopped them asking questions.  The embarrassment of that would be so much easier.

 

000

 

Laying on his back, Bull stared up at the tarped over hole in his roof. He’d kept putting off the workers, telling them the tarp was just fine, and that he knew that they had other more important work.  Now… now that wasn’t necessary.  Morgan wouldn’t be sneaking in through it any time soon, and it was like he had any other lovers that…   He didn’t have any other lovers at all, really.  He hadn’t had since he and Morgan started.  She had needed his full attention, and he had been more than happy to give it to her.

That was where he’d messed up. He’d cared first.  Looking back, she had been ‘Kadan’ before they fucked.  Morgan had become his friend and respected ally long before that.  He’d gone to her bed already caring deeply.  If they hadn’t been as close, it would have been easier.  She could have just had someone to blow off steam with.  But she’d _mattered_ to him.  Her health and happiness had been so fucking important.

And they still were, he realized.

Bull didn’t have to see her to know that her decision had hurt her more than anyone. Love was stupid.  It distracted you, blinding you to the _right_ decision and made you want to do the selfish one.  But Morgan was _smart_ , he told himself, over and over in his head.  She’d recognized it, and seen the risk that it had posed to the Inquisition.  She’d cut it away, doing what she _had_ to do, instead of what she _wanted_.

It was a really fucking Qunari thing to do.

Bull found himself smiling, thinking back to a conversation months ago. When he had pointed out that the Inquisition had no leader, she had hardly paused before saying she’d take the job if it was offered.  Her mask had slipped, and for a moment, he’d seen how much the idea terrified her.  But she’d been practical, pointing out why it might make sense for _her_ to lead, as opposed to Cassandra.  And she’d meant every word.  Bull had told her then that Qunari didn’t pick leaders because they were smart or strong.  Qunari picked leaders that could make the hard decisions, and live with the consequences of those actions.

Morgan was doing the same thing now.

Except now she was _hurting_ , and he couldn’t help!  She had probably cried herself to sleep last night, _alone_.  Just the thought made his chest tighten and ache, a helpless pain.  Bull hated helpless.  He wanted to be angry at her.  If she hadn’t fallen in love, he could still be helping her through all this shit.  He tried.  He really _tried_ to be angry, to scorn her stupid feelings as something _beneath_ him. 

But he couldn’t. He just hurt. 

He hurt because his friend, his leader, his fucking _Kadan_ , was in pain and he couldn’t do a damn thing to help.  Because she’d made the _right_ _choice_.

With a growl, Bull sat up, yanking on his boots and ankle brace. This right here, _this_ was why the Tamas told you not to have sex with your friends!  Everyone ended up hurt in some way or another.  He had to get out of the room.  Just looking at the ceiling made him think of how easily her small body moved.  The extra pillow on his bed _smelled_ like her.  If he’d looked, there would have been a careful coil of broken laces from her stay, ripped one time in their excitement, hidden in his drawer.

 

000

 

Dorian was used to visitors. He had even seen the Iron Bull come through a few times, either speaking with Sister Leliana, or on his way to see her.  So he wasn’t terribly alarmed when the large horned head emerged from the stairs.  Dorian barely even looked up from his book until the same horned head was casting a shadow into his little alcove, and not moving away.  Looking up, it took a great deal of self-control not to tense up and brace himself.  The Iron Bull’s face was thunderous.

But Dorian was used to people trying to intimidate him, so he settled further back into his chair, and kept reading. The impatient growl drew him back in an instant.  The Iron Bull, master spy for the Dread Qunari, didn’t _show_ silly things like impatience.  Dorian looked at the grey face again, a bit harder.  Not just anger there.  Worry.  Curiosity shriveled, and Dorian met the single eye squarely.

“Is she alright?”

Something that might have been either surprise or amusement crossed Bull’s face, and then his shook his head, letting out a breath. His shoulders sagged slightly, slipping back into a neutral posture.  “Is who alright, _Sparkler_?” he said, having grown rather fond of Varric’s nickname for the mage.

Dorian snapped the book shut in his lap, not even bothering to mark his place. “You _know_ who, you great lummox,” he hissed.  “Morgan.  Your ‘Boss’.  Is she alright?”  Each word dripped with venom, but there was nothing but worry in Dorian’s eyes. 

Worry that was ready to turn into anger if Bull didn’t explain himself soon. He opened his mouth.  Nothing came out. _‘Vashedan!’_ he cursed to himself.  He was _ashamed_. 

“What did you _do_?”  Dorian stood slowly, and the hairs on Bulls arms stood on end, reacting to the magical energy pulsing in the man.  Instinctual fear took hold, and muscle memory drew him back a step before he had control again.

“Nothing,” he said, forcing himself to spread his arms, leaving him open and exposed. “I really, _really_ didn’t do anything.”  He risked looking away.  “Look, can we take this somewhere private?  I don’t want her business—”

The quick wave of Dorian’s hand made Bull want to flinch, but he kept himself still. “There,” Dorian said, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Don’t go beyond the end of that shelf and we won’t be heard.”  His sharp eyes were _commanding_ Bull to continue.

“Alright, so Mor—the Boss and I were sleeping together.”

“Yes, and the sky is blue. Are you just stating obvious facts?” Dorian snapped.  Then the phrasing dawned on him.  “Were?  As in not anymore?”

Bull nodded, pretending the words didn’t make the tightness in his chest worse. “Yeah.  She…  She said she… _vashedan_!”  It was harder than he’d expected.  He wanted to pace.  He wanted to sit down.  He scrubbed a hand over his face.  “She said she’d… fallen in love with me.  And that it was clouding her judgement.  She ended things because she didn’t want to put me above the Inquisition.”

Whatever Dorian had expected, it hadn’t been that whispered, pained confession. So he gaped, open-mouthed at the Qunari in front of him.  Bull seemed to take that a que to continue.

“I mean, I know it’s the right choice, but love… love fucks you up. She has to be hurting right now and I thought…”  He was usually so good with words.  But asking someone to do this, to offer the support and reassurance he’d gotten so used to giving Morgan…  “Look.  Just… go check on her.  Don’t let her drink too much.  She’ll hate herself if she does.”  His hand went into his pocket, and pulled out a copy of the report of the incident in the Emprise.  “Read this first.  It’s…  I think it’s what set her off.”

Wordlessly, Dorian took the page, opening it and smoothing it out in his hands. “I… am at a loss.”

The smile that twisted Bull’s face was anything but happy. “You and me, too, Big Guy,” he sighed.  “Just… watch out for her, alright?  She _trusts_ you.”  He held Dorian’s gaze then.  “You know how hard trust is for her.  She trusts you, for some reason, and could really fucking use a friend right now.”  Then he left, leaving Dorian with far more questions than answers.

 

000

 

Morgan stormed out of the War Room hall, carrying an actual _crate_ of papers.  A curt request for wine and something to eat sent a servant scurrying.  Almost instantly, Morgan felt guilty for snapping at the poor girl, but she was already gone to do as she was bid.  Lip curling, Morgan stalked back up the stairs, Hinter at her heels.  He had sat under the War Table all morning, getting up to walk with her when she paced.

The Orlesians were proving and excellent distraction. There were so many horrible people going to the ball at the Winter Palace, and she was going to have to make nice with just about all of them.  Reading up on the horrible things they’d done, the little people they’d crushed on their way up, stoked her to an anger she hadn’t felt since Dorothea’s visit.  If they wanted the Inquisitor to play their Grand Game, she would play, and she would _ruin_ them.

“Morgan!”

The shout of her name made her realize she’d forgotten to close the first door. Only a few people used her given name, and she waited.  Dorian stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.  He was… out of breath?  “What’s so important that Lord Pavus had to _sprint_ through a very crowded hall of people?”  The playful jab came out sharper than she’d meant it, and she winced.  Dorian didn’t seem to notice.

“You and your buggering selflessness,” he said in his usual exasperated tone. He waved a hand, and the crate of papers floated out of her hands, making Hinter bark.  “Up the stairs, Your Worship.” 

He knew. Morgan didn’t know how but he _knew_. _‘Run.’_ That was her first thought.  If she went up to her room and Dorian sat down to _talk_ with her, she’d lose all her anger and be right back to crying like a fucking child.  The pain she had worked all morning to bottle up and push down would come pouring right back out.

“Morgan.” His tone was gentler that time, his expression softening.  “Would you really rather be alone?”

Oh. So they didn’t have to get all the way up to her room before the tears started.  Alright then.  Eyes stinging, Morgan found herself shaking her head, but unable to speak.  Hinter pushed under her hand, whining softly.  “No,” Morgan whispered, not trusting her voice beyond that.  “Maker, no…”  Even whispering, the words cracked and shuddered.

“Alright then. Up we go.”  Dorian turned her around and urged her up the steps with a light hand on her shoulder, levitating the crate with them.  “You can cry on my shirt if you like, but if you ruin the silk, you’ll be buying me a new one.”  There was only a soft tone in the jesting words, and Morgan wanted to hug him.  She waited until they were upstairs, and then she really did start crying, apologizing profusely between hiccups.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry. This is NOT the end of the story, I promise!


End file.
